


Peach

by semi_sweet



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Shiny Toy Guns, The Hush Sound
Genre: 1920s, Blood, Death, Drugs, FUCK, Good God, M/M, Murder, Night Terrors, Oh, Paranoia, That is all, This really got away from me, Violence, but fucked up, i am on the autobahn to hell bc germany has no speed limit and that's how fast i am headed there, mental health, o wait trigger warnings, sex and a lot of it, so much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Everybody knows those dreams where you can’t run faster or you can’t find the door or you’re standing in the middle of your old school naked. Everybody has nightmares. Patrick’s nightmares weren’t that. Patrick’s nightmares were the ones where you come home to find all your furniture has been moved an inch to the left, where your best friend doesn’t quite meet your eye, where your mother’s voice sounds wrong. Patrick’s nightmares were like normal dreams except for one minor detail that shifted the picture from a peaceful fantasy to internal hell. Patrick’s dreams were never private. He shared them, every one of them. And if you’re sharing your dreams, then what, truly, is just you? Is there anywhere you can hide? Is there anywhere you can be alone?





	1. I Just Wanted To Hold You In My Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_chaotic_panda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Panda! You're amazing and incredible and wonderful and gorgeous and therefor i am gifting you this horrific tale that is the opposite of fluff and nice things but i know it's what you like (snitches reassured me, blame her). Hope you like it and if you don't pls pretend you do bc i am insecure x love u
> 
> Right, for yall: CHECK THE MOTHERFUCKIN TAGS and enjoy. thanks.
> 
> Thank you SnitchesAndTalkers and Das_Verlorene_Kind for helping me out with the idea and betaing.
> 
> Work title nicked from Awsten Knight, chapter titles pinched from Muse.

“That’s $4.20, please.” He smiled patiently at the elderly lady who was frankly taking much longer than she should getting the appropriate coins out of her little purse. She was old, fragile, her hands were shaking. It wasn’t her fault. He could wait. He had time. Her fingers were cold when they brushed against his open palm and Patrick found himself wondering how much longer Mrs Finch would still be coming to their little corner store. He hoped it would be a while yet. 

 

“Have a nice day!” She called to him once she’d managed to collect all her paper bags and was halfway out of the door. He was not having a nice day, the shadows around his eyes testament to that.

 

“Thanks, you too!” He leaned back on the shelf behind him. There weren’t many customers at this time, most people were at work in the mornings, the housewives had already been in and Mrs Finch’s leaving usually rang in a bit of a break until the mid day hassle. Patrick wondered if there was time for him to pop and grab a sandwich. 

 

“Hey!” His silly little heart skipped a beat at the sound of her voice, the way it had done for the past 18 months and probably would continue doing for, well… God knows how long. 

 

“Hi.” He smiled at her warmly. Greta was almost 5 years younger than him, a short, skinny girl with dirty blonde hair not too far off his own colour and quite possibly the prettiest pair of hazel eyes he had ever seen. And as though that wasn’t enough, she was funny and smart, real smart, wasted in a grocery store, really. At the same time, Patrick never wanted her to leave.

 

“I brought you a sandwich! I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just got you ham and cheese.” Patrick hadn’t thought he could fall even more in love. 

 

“Thanks.” He took it off her, trying his best to deliver a grateful smile that didn’t make him look too weird. It was nice. She’d bought it was Ferryman’s down the road, he could tell. They were his favourite. 

 

“Are you alright?” He snapped out of his little fantasy quickly, hoping his expression hadn’t given him away. Greta looked concerned, a small frown drew a single crease on her forehead. It was cute. 

 

Patrick nodded, “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, stifling a yawn with a mouthful of New York’s finest. 

 

“I dunno, you look… sort of gray and tired. Is something troubling you?” Patrick bit his lip. He made a point not to think about it, about them, about  _ him _ whenever he didn’t have to. He wasn’t about to tell her about it, about his problem, how he couldn’t sleep, or rather, how he didn’t want to sleep, how he’s force himself to stay awake all night because seeing the rays of the morning sun without waking up in a bed that stank of his own sweat was more of a relief than a few hours of sleep could ever be to him. He shrugged the question off. “Couldn’t get to sleep yesterday, it’s fine.” Greta didn’t look too convinced, but she nodded anyway. 

 

“If you, uh… need a rest, let me know and I… I mean, I think I’ll manage alone for a bit.” Patrick smiled at her for what felt like the thousandth time that day. “Thanks.” She was so cute. Cute and pretty and kind and funny and nice and-

 

“Hey, uh, Greta…” She turned and looked at him with big eyes, filled with expectation for… for what? Patrick suddenly felt like a bit of an idiot if he was being honest. He  _ could _ just pull the old ‘oh, nothing’ and spend the rest of his days moping after the pretty girl at work, it would save him from a lot of potential embarrassment… 

 

“I was… wondering if you, like… would… would want to maybe grab a coffee sometime? With me. Or not. If you don’t want. I mean… I mean, that’s fine, too, like, I’m-”

 

“Patrick.” She didn’t look mad. That was something, at least. She was smiling, even and… was… was she blushing? He was pretty sure he was. He felt like he might die if she took any longer to reply. “I’d love to go for coffee with you.” 

  
  
  


“Hey, mom!”

 

“Hey, sweetheart, how was work?” 

 

“Work was fine.” His mom was lying in her favourite spot on their beige sofa, the one where the springs were sagging for the overuse of them, reading today’s paper. Patrick didn’t care much about the news. It was rarely good, anyway. 

 

“Good. I’m making pie for dinner, I hope that’s okay?” He nodded. “That’s fine, thanks, mom.” She gave him that slightly concerned look she always gave him from over her glasses. He hated it so, so much, it made him feel like a little boy and he  _ wasn’t _ , he was almost 25 for crying out loud! It was his own fault, though. She didn’t need to be worried about him but, well, he got it… sort of. 

 

“Don’t forget to take your medicine!” she called after him as he thundered up the stairs, “I can tell you didn’t sleep again last night!” He had slept! He’d got an hour, that wasn’t bad. He’d gone on less for longer, even if he didn’t exactly feel great right now, but it wouldn’t kill him. 

 

The little, brown bottle stood hauntingly on his dresser, visible from every angle in his room so he couldn’t forget if he wanted to. The truth was it didn’t help much, really. It didn’t make the dreams go away, just trapped him in them. His mom thought that meant it made him better. She thought that when he did wake up in the middle of the night, shouting or crying or covered in his own piss, he’d just forgotten to take the pills. It was okay. It let her believe he was okay and that was a good thing. 

 

“Mom…” he asked her over dinner, even if he would rather be swallowed whole than have this conversation with her. But his dad was gone and she was all he had and he needed advice, “when you and dad.. When he met you, he like… when he courted you, what… what did he do?”

 

He did not expect his mother to drop her fork and let out what could only be described as a squeal of delight. Horror, yup, he’d expected that. Tears? Almost definitely, but… delight? 

 

“Oh, my boy, finally, I was… starting to worry you… oh, but nevermind! Who is she?” Patrick’s eyebrows were tickling his hairline and he was somewhat lost for words. 

 

“Uh… I, uh…” His mom was looking at him expectantly, not unlike the way Greta had hours before. “She works with me and… she’s very nice and polite and smart.”

 

“Pretty?” He felt himself burning red. “Ah, she is. Good.” Frankly, Patrick was shocked. His mother, his mom who insisted on tucking him into bed every night, who panicked when he came home ten minutes late because he’d missed the subway, who made sure never to leave him alone for more than a quarter of an hour at a time was happy he was... he was courting a girl? A girl he might marry someday and leave her for? As though she could read his mind, she took his hand and looked him dead in the eye, a soft but serious tone suddenly to her voice.

 

“Listen, you know I… I’d most like to just… keep you here forever but, well… as long as you have somebody looking after you…”  _ looking after _ . There it was again. Patrick smiled at her. 

 

“Thanks, mom.” There was something so warm and loving in her expression, it almost made Patrick not want to leave her, either…

 

“So, courting women, basically what you need to do is listen to her…”

  
  
  
  


Patrick stared at his reflection.

 

Patrick’s reflection stared back in all its short, fat glory. He sighed heavily. He somehow had to make himself look presentable, somehow had to hide the fact that he was balding, somehow had to cover the ever-present rings under his eyes, somehow had to make his face seem more… alive.

 

He’d not slept last night. This was mainly due to the fact that he figured not sleeping at all was safer than risking another… repeat of the previous night. It didn’t always take his mom cradling his head to calm him down, to dispel all thoughts of  _ him _ , to stop Patrick from seeing  _ him _ in the corner of his room, looming in the shadows, watching, waiting, always patient enough to let the right moment arise so he could tear him apart again. It had been bad two nights ago. He felt bad now, but at least not as bad as he had then. 

 

Short, fat, crazy. He wasn’t quite sure Greta deserved somebody like him. His mom had offered to find one of his dad’s old suits, as though his dad hadn’t been a foot taller than he was. And slimmer. And more handsome. Maybe his mom’s advice of  _ listen to her and be yourself  _ only worked if you were already attractive. Why the fuck had Greta even agreed to this? He looked like a total numpty in his old, white trousers and a tatty, white shirt under a terrible, tweed waistcoat, complete with red braces and a not very complementary green bow tie. He sort of just wanted to cancel. 

 

No matter how much of a mess he appeared to be, his mom regarded him with the warmest of looks, putting a brimmed hat on his thinning hair. At least one of them had thought ahead. 

 

“Now, my boy, always hold the door for her, yes? Make sure you pay for her meal, always let her speak if she wants to, don’t cut her off. If you think things are going well, kiss her hand, girls like that. Don’t get her home too late and please let me know if you’re going to be out much longer than 10, I get worried…” Yes, Patrick knew she did, it wasn’t exactly her best-kept secret. He gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous.

 

Greta looked amazing. Of course she did, it was out of the question, really, but her casual tea dress suited her a damn sight better than Patrick’s ill-fitting and mismatched suit suited him. He didn’t know much about makeup, but he could tell she was wearing it differently to usual, he cheeks were rosier and her lips were red. He couldn’t stop looking at them. She was so pretty. She kept giggling at his comments, her bare shoulders childishly shaking with her chuckles, her eyes ablaze with something Patrick couldn’t quite place but it seemed to be going… well?

 

They’d not gone for coffee, in the end, he was actually taking her out for dinner. It was more romantic, his mother had said, and if that meant he had a better chance of this working out, well. No question, really. 

 

By the end of their dinner, he was ready to drag her to the altar there and then. He wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that, so he settled for what his mother had advised. He took her home. 

 

_ Home _ for Greta turned out to be an apartment in Brooklyn, basically the other side of the city from where Patrick lived and he tried not to think about how much gas was running through his car as he drove her there. He stopped on the road outside, beneath a tall… tree. He was a city kid, as if he knew what tree it was! It was a nice tree, though. 

 

She’d turned in her seat so she was facing him, leaning forward enough for him to be able to look down…  he kept his eyes on her face, it wasn’t polite to look without permission.

 

“I had… I had a good night, thank you.” She bit her lip. Patrick felt… well. Like he needed to get into the privacy of his own room quickly. Oh! The hand! He let his fingers brush her gloved wrist. “May I?” 

 

He gently kissed the hand willingly held out towards him and stroked over it once with his thumb before letting go. “I hope you get home safely.”

 

Greta giggled. “Oh come on, I’m almost there, I’ll be fine! It’s you who has such a long way to go still…” She was touching his arm. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation, had he not done something right? Wasn’t this the point where she thanked him for the night out and went home? What was he missing? 

 

“You could… come in with me?” Oh. Well. This was… Patrick frowned. 

 

“I’m not sure I… it’s kinda late…” Her smile was so bright and warm and pretty. 

 

“You can stay over, don’t worry.” Why was she suddenly so close? Was he imagining it or was she really… “nobody will care.” 

 

She kissed him.

 

He’d never kissed a girl before, ever, not even a quick peck like some of the naughty boys at school had, or the handsome men he sometimes saw in the evenings. It felt… nice. Warm and soft. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just sort of pouted his lips, but Greta seemed to be able to work with that. 

 

“Come on, come inside with me.” There was that glint again, burning in her irises, along with the shy little smile. Patrick felt it, too, he did but he knew he should just ignore it. Nothing good could come of this. “Please, I don’t want to be alone tonight…” Patrick glanced up at the flats. There were lights on everywhere, he wasn’t sure which ones belonged to her apartment.

 

“Your parents-”

 

“I live alone. Come on, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to?” He swallowed. Hard. Audibly. “I mean I won’t… I don’t want you to think I’m easy, but I… I like you, Patrick and-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, yeah.” He was embarrassed by how out of breath he sounded, but her face lit up and she scrambled out of the car. 

 

Her apartment was on the fourth floor. There was no elevator up. Patrick was even more out of breath by the time he was standing in her flat. 

 

“Nice place.” It was. Surprisingly spacious, tall walls, orange light bled through the windows, catching on the lamps scattered along the wallpaper. She’d decorated it nicely, plenty of flowers on every surface. 

 

She kissed him again. Barely touched their lips together, until Patrick was certain he wanted more than this, but when they broke apart, she looked hesitant. She hadn’t before, she’d seemed quite certain of herself. Her hand was on his cheek, fingers barely brushing it, but enough to send heat coursing through his body. If Patrick was perfectly honest, he was at a bit of a loss as to what he should do.

 

Greta kissed him again, properly this time, and this time he put his hands on her waist, not holding on in case she didn’t want that, but still touching her, his flattened palms against her sides. She took one of them and turned her back, leading him through her pretty, little flat until… Her bed was big, larger than Patrick’s, two people could comfortably fit in it. He bit his lip.

 

Patrick hadn’t planned on it going this far, hadn’t  _ dreamed _ of it, if he was honest, he had never thought past a hypothetical wedding at some point down the road, let alone what came after and he surely hadn’t banked on the after coming before. 

 

“Greta, I’m not sure…” A finger was pressed to his lips. 

 

“Shhh,” she hushed, “it’s okay. I’m… I don’t really know what I’m doing, I just… want to…” This time, Patrick kissed her. His hand was in her hair, making a mess of the tidy knot as he dared to drive his tongue along her lips. She opened them willingly, just for a couple of seconds, before breaking away and taking three steps back, further into the room, away from him. Patrick cast his gaze to the ground in shame for having pushed for this.

 

“I’m sorry, I-” A flutter sounded in his ears. A quick glance confirmed her dress was pooling by her feet and when he looked up, she’d unfastened her bra and was dropping it to the ground. Patrick bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the harsh bite of iron. He’d seen… pictures. Obviously, he supposed every man had, come on, he might be capable of treating a lady the way she deserved to be treated, he may be too scared to even speak with women, but he was only human, how was he supposed to resist the pictures? However alluring they may be, though, Patrick decided then and there they were nothing compared to reality, to the soft, pale expanse of female skin. He shouldn’t…  _ they _ shouldn’t… but she wanted this, didn’t she? And if he was honest then… then so did he and… and was it that bad?

 

He ended up lying on his back on the bed, undressed - save his socks - with Greta lying on top of him, equally naked. Unsurprisingly, his dick was rock hard, resting against her ass, but nothing more. She was kissing him. He was joining in. Patrick had almost convinced himself this was as far as it was going, until she sat back and pushed herself onto her knees. A loud hiss escaped him as she touched his cock, sending fire through him. Yes, of course he touched his own cock, he wasn’t a fucking priest, he knew how it felt to wrap his own, rough fist around it, stroke it until stars filled his vision, but it was nothing compared to Greta’s long, slender fingers barely ghosting over the hot flesh of it. She was hovering right above it. For the millionth time that night, Patrick bit his lip, hard. 

 

Greta was warm and tight. At first, it took a bit of effort, reassurance, in a way, that she was still pure. Or had been until now. Patrick wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. She made the most incredible noises, he hadn’t even dreamed it would be this good, sound this good,  _ feel _ this good. 

 

“Tell me…” she gasped through little whines, rocking against him steadily with his hands either side of her hips, “tell me when you’re… you’re close.” Almost embarrassingly, Patrick spluttered it out straight away.

 

“I’m close, dear God… I’m close, Greta…” Suddenly, the warm tightness was gone, he was out in the cold, harsh against his sensitive prick. Still, he came, with a high whine, all over everywhere, not thinking twice about what he was staining, aside from her virtue. 

 

She curled up next to him as the guilt ate him alive. He’d taken this young girl, this poor, young girl and defamed her, destroyed her, possibly. What now? She couldn’t ever face another man in this way. Not that he wanted her to, but he’d claimed her, on their first night together, left his mark, bound her. 

 

“I’m sorry…”

 

“Shhhh,” she hissed into the darkness. 

  
  
  
  
  


Patrick’s eyes snapped open. This in itself wasn’t an unusual occurrence, what was unusual was that he wasn’t screaming or sweating or crying. He’d been… he’d been sleeping perfectly peacefully, tightly, soundly, the way he’d dreamed of for… well, he didn’t know how long for. He’d had the nightmares for as long as he could remember.  They’d never gone away. They were leaving him alone now. Why? And why had he woken up? 

 

The wind was blowing through the open window, making the curtains flutter in its wake, like spectres. They were just curtains. The dark shadow in the corner of the room, that was just a wardrobe, he’d seen it earlier, a big, hardwood wardrobe, nothing… weird, not a person, not  _ him _ .  _ He _ wasn’t here. With his big, white grin and his long, black fingers and his glowing eyes. 

 

But somebody else was. He could hear them. He could hear breathing behind him, low, steady breathing, like a predator waiting for him, sitting on his back. Patrick closed his eyes and tried to wish it away. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t there, it was just a dream, this was just a bad dream. He could wake up and it would be gone. No more breathing. No more shadows. No more spectres. 

 

He didn’t wake up. 

 

The breathing was still there, an animal waiting. He imagined long teeth and longer claws curling around his throat, slowly forcing the life out of him. This was real, it had to be. Dreams never went this far, they never touched him, but something sharp was digging into the back of his neck. Claws. They were claws. Maybe  _ he _ was here, maybe  _ he _ was behind him, his glowing eyes burning holes into the back of his head. The spectres danced at the window. The shadow seemed closer now than it had moments before. A low rasping sounded against his ear. Patrick screwed his eyes shut and tried not to cry out. He could call for his mom, she’d come, she’d help him, she’d hold him and sing to him and tell him it would be okay.

 

He couldn’t speak. 

 

Maybe if he ran, maybe if he just made a run for it, sprang out of bed and ran away. Like prey. And what did predators do best? Hunt. Maybe  _ he _ wanted him to run. His legs wouldn’t move. 

 

Slowly, carefully, as not to disturb  _ him _ , he reached out into the darkness beside him, fumbling for something he could use to keep himself safe, to keep  _ him _ away.Something cold brushed his fingers. Something dols and hard and pointy. And sharp. It had a hilt, a dagger, maybe? No, more likely, a knife. Perfect. This couldn’t be a dream. The dreams would never arm him, the dreams were  _ his _ realm, he never let Patrick win in  _ his _ realm. 

 

But why was  _ he _ here? Why?  _ He _ never came here, not really. Maybe that was why he’d been able to sleep? Because  _ he _ was here now,  _ he _ was real.  _ He _ was real. A shiver ran through Patrick’s body, all the way through it, making every inch of him tremble. If  _ he _ was here, would Patrick ever be free? Or had  _ he _ found him now? He gripped the knife tighter, the breath was tickling the back of his neck now. He could make out words in the rasping, low, muttered words. No, word. One word, over and over and over again.

 

_ Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. _

 

With a sudden rush of panic gripping him tight, clawing at his body and tearing him apart, shredding his brain and everything in it, clutching his throat, cutting off his breath, making him roar and shake and tremble, he launched himself at  _ him _ , knife in hand and drove it home, again and again and again, as deep as he could on every thrust, until it was warm and it was wet and then he kept going, tearing away, satisfied by the sound of flesh and bone giving away beneath his knife. He scrambled up, out of bed, away from  _ him _ , out of the room, away from the screams that sounded like pure horror. 

 

“MOM?!” His voice tore through his body like the knife had torn through  _ his _ flesh, again and again “MOM?! MOM?! MOM?!” She didn’t reply, she always replied! She always came, she was always there to hold him when he needed her! Where  _ was _ she?! 

 

He’d taken her. He must have, that was the only explanation, he’d taken his mom. He’d not just come for him, he’d come for… for everything that made him safe, he… 

 

Not knowing what else to do, Patrick tore down the stairs, following their path, not thinking about where he was going, how far he was going down for, where they were taking him, he needed to get out, to warn people, to warn the Gibsons and the Harleys and the Millers across the road with their infant child,  _ he _ was coming,  _ he _ was here! 

 

Patrick crashed down the stairs, his legs giving way, quitting on him before he could reach the bottom. Pain tore through his abdomen, blinding him. He kept going, he  _ had to _ keep going. His leg screamed when he pushed himself up, but he ignored it. He needed to… needed… he…

 

He made it outside the front door, made it far enough to feel the cold of February on his naked skin, made it far enough to see a street that was not his own, to see a car that was his parked alongside cars he did not know, made it far enough to fall against a street lamp he had never touched before, made it far enough to see the blood covering him, staining him shining red, the blade in his hand not a blade but… a nail file, not unlike his mother’s, covered in the same, sticky blood as him. He made it far enough to find the hole in his gut, freely pulsating his own blood, leaking out over his naked, white skin, painting it a grotesque picture of… of what? Of death? Was this death? He couldn’t breathe properly, iron fists clamping down on his lungs as he felt his knees give in, saw his world go black and heard a low, rasping laugh.


	2. Scares The Hell Out Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my people!
> 
> Uh, update I guess?? Thanks to the three people who actually commented lol  
> Have... fun ?

_ Scritch scritch scritch _ . 

 

Day four.

 

_ Scritch scritch scritch. _

 

Four days.

 

Four days of this and he was already losing his mind.

Patrick didn’t want to complain, he knew he deserved it, he knew what he’d done and he knew this was right, he deserved to be locked up, he was dangerous, he was crazy, he was… he was mad. But how exactly this place was supposed to help him, he wasn’t sure.

 

_ Scritch scritch scritch. _

 

Maybe he couldn’t be helped. Maybe if it was best for him to sit out his days in here, his cramped, little, grey cell, listening to his neighbour carve marks into theirs. 

 

_ Scritch scritch scritch. _

 

_ He _ hadn’t even gone away.

 

Patrick knew now it hadn’t been  _ him  _ that night, it had just been Greta. She’d been lying behind him, close for warmth and… and maybe some other reason, her nails digging into his neck and leaving crescent mars as she peacefully slept. 

 

Then he’d lost his mind and stabbed her. She wasn’t dead, apparently, but she might still die. That was what the doctor had told him. He’d come to see how Patrick would take it, how he’d react, if he’d break again. Patrick had just sat still and not said a word. It was better that way, safer, probably.

 

They gave him food three times a day, a slice of bread and butter for breakfast, lukewarm soup for lunch, three slices of bread and cheese for dinner. It wasn’t exactly satiating but it was… something. He didn’t deserve more. And it was good if he lost a few pounds. Not that that really mattered much… 

 

He rubbed his sore, tired eyes and looked out of his barred window. The light was all but blinding, a single speck of the outside world bleeding through into what was now his reality. He thought the doctor was due later today. Last time he’d just asked some questions. Patrick hadn’t answered them. He didn’t want to say anything wrong. He didn’t know how long he was in here for, but just in case his sentence wasn’t permanent yet, he didn’t want to risk making it that. He kept his mouth shut.

 

_ Scritch scritch scritch _

 

Patrick launched himself out of bed and to the other end of the cramped, little room, as far away from his neighbour as he could get. He tried not to consciously think about the fact that he was cowering on the floor in the corner of an asylum cell having just… 

 

He knew why he was here. He deserved it. If what he’d done haunted him every waking minute for the rest of his life whilst every second asleep was torment, well, wasn’t that justice? They could have just executed him for what he’d done. He didn’t deserve that kind of mercy. 

 

The heavy, metal door scraped across the concrete floor, reminding him that this was a security ward, he was dangerous. He, short, fat Patrick Stump who lived with his mum and worked at a grocery store was dangerous… it was almost laughable. Almost.

 

“Hello, Patrick.” It was the nurse, the one who’d been there with the doctor every time. He didn’t know her name. 

 

“Hello.” Was there any danger of him doing something wrong with her? If he just avoided eye contact and stuck to basic social etiquette, there wasn’t much he could do wrong, right? Right?

 

“Could you lie down on the bed, please, Patrick?” He hoped she didn’t notice the uncomfortable shifting that followed the request, hoped she didn’t pick up on how his body tensed, how he cowered in on himself just a bit more because the last time a woman had asked him that he’d-

 

“I need to take some of your blood, it’s safer if you’re lying down.” Patrick risked a glance at her. Taller than him, blonde, blue-eyed… she was staring at him patiently. Was that supposed to make him feel less anxious? If anything, it made it worse. What did they want his  _ blood _ for? Like that was going to make  _ him _ go away. Or maybe they were just going to let him bleed out. What a mercy that would be. 

 

Patrick lay down, not because he wanted to, but rather because he had no other choice. What was he going to do, refuse? Fight her? Fight a woman? He was almost certain getting out of it wouldn’t be that simple. Nothing ever was, was it?

 

“How does your stomach feel, Patrick?” Like he’d been sliced open and stitched back together, like he was a ragdoll, a patchwork, a stuffed toy. 

 

“Fine, thank you.” She smiled at him warmly, the way he was almost certain she’d been trained. Or maybe she was just nice. 

 

“What’s your name?” He wasn’t sure if he should be asking that, or if she would tell him, even. Was he allowed to get familiar with the nurses? Was she allowed to speak to him outside of what she had been instructed to say? Patrick just wanted a friend. Or somebody he could have a normal conversation with, if nothing else. So he didn’t feel quite as alone as he truly was. He didn’t want to be alone.

 

“Carah”, she replied, almost flippantly, like it didn’t matter. Patrick found himself wondering if that was her real name or if it was the first thing she’d come up with. “How are you feeling, Patrick?” He frowned at her, confused by her question. Hadn’t she just asked him that? He only realized what she was referring to when she nodded to the needle buried under his skin, steadily draining him of blood. It was weird, seeing it in the syringe, that was his blood, part of him, and it was sitting in a tube. Now he thought about it, he felt a bit dizzy. 

 

Patrick scrunched his face and shifted uncomfortably, trying to re-focus on the world around him, the cold grey of the bare walls and the  _ scritch scritch scritch  _ against the wall next to his head. It was hopeless, the room wouldn’t stop swaying,

 

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay, I’m done.” A soft palm pressed against his cheek, satin-smooth and warm and he nestled into it. It reminded him of his mother’s, even if the fingers were a little too long and a little too skinny but if he closed his eyes hard enough, he could fool himself into believing they weren’t. 

 

“You should get some sleep…” No. No, he couldn’t sleep. Patrick shook his head, but his eyelids were already drooping, too heavy for him to hold. He couldn’t look behind them, that was where  _ he _ lived. If he stayed awake it would be fine, he’d be safe,  _ he _ couldn’t get to him again and he needed to keep  _ him _ away. The fact that he couldn’t stay awake forever seemed trivial. 

 

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe here, safe than anywhere else. Just sleep, you’ll feel better.” She sounded so kind, so protective, so safe. He almost believed her.

 

“N-no, I… no… can’t… he… he…” Patrick was struggling to find words he was sure he’d known minutes before. Somehow they weren’t there now. Somehow, that didn’t matter. What had he wanted to tell her? Something about… something… something…

 

“Sleep.”

  
  
  
  


Everybody knows those dreams where you can’t run faster or you can’t find the door or you’re standing in the middle of your old school naked. Everybody has nightmares. Patrick’s nightmares weren’t that. Patrick’s nightmares were the ones where you come home to find all your furniture has been moved an inch to the left, where your best friend doesn’t quite meet your eye, where your mother’s voice sounds wrong. Patrick’s nightmares were like normal dreams except for one minor detail that shifted the picture from a peaceful fantasy to internal hell. Patrick’s dreams were never private. He shared them, every one of them. And if you’re sharing your dreams, then what, truly, is just you? Is there anywhere you can hide? Is there anywhere you can be alone? He’d never seen  _ him _ . Well, actually, he suspected he had. The thing was, Patrick always  _ forgot _ . The second he woke up in a cold sweat, the second he was torn out of his sleep by his own screams or his mother bursting into his room, the reality in his head faded, the only reminder being soaked sheets and his trembling body. That’s why he couldn’t talk about them, he didn’t  _ remember, _ no matter how many times his mother asked, the doctor asked, the nurses asked, he still wouldn’t remember. It wasn’t real. But it was just real enough to haunt him. It was just real enough to get him here, the exposure of his little cell almost mocking, there was nowhere to hide in it, no corner where he couldn’t be seen from the latch in the door, not one spot where he could be certain nobody was observing his every move. It was like  _ he _ was constantly standing right behind him, breathing down his neck, mocking him. 

 

Maybe the  _ scritch scritch scritch _ . Was onto something. At least it filled the deafening silence of isolation. 

 

Two weeks. Patrick’s beard was ginger, which he supposed was good to know. He’d never tried growing it out. Not that he was physically in a state where he could decide whether it suited him or not. And why would he be given a mirror outside of the one in the washroom? He could just break it and hurt himself again. 

 

The doctor’s name was Smith. He seemed like an okay guy. He didn’t speak to Patrick like he was a nutcase, which he appreciated. Some of the nurses did that, they thought he was dangerous. Not that he could blame them, after what he’d done… 

 

It haunted him. They wouldn’t tell him how she was, if she was still alive, even. And if she was dead…

 

He stood up abruptly as his door swung open, fists curled at his side so his too-long, dirty nails were digging into his palm. A small part of him was hoping it would be cleaning staff, but in the two weeks he’d been locked up and left he hadn’t seen a single person wielding a mop or even a brush. They wouldn’t even give him a damp cloth, like his cell wasn’t to be cleaned, so he could rot in a prison of his own making and when he wanted to rid himself of the dirt clinging to his skin, they’d take him to the washrooms in shackles, strip him down and shove him beneath a jet of stinging hot water so hard he wasn’t sure whether his skin reddened due to the heat or the pressure. 

 

If there was one thing he had learned in the last two weeks, it was that he wasn’t human.

 

“Patrick!” It was the doctor. Not Mister Smith, the other one that sometimes peered in at him through the latch on his steel door. Patrick didn’t know his name. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more of him beside the steel blue eyes that silently watched him on occasion. But glancing over the nameless doctor’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of one of the nurses that sometimes came to restrain him in the night. She always spoke softly and never hurt him. He supposed that had to count for something. Surely, nothing bad was going to happen to him. Surely, nothing worse  _ could _ happen to him. Patrick was pretty sure the rat that came whenever he was eating considered him a friend already. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Patrick shrugged. How was he feeling? Besides not knowing, he figured it was safer not to let on that he hadn’t slept for two days, last time he’d admitted to it, they’d come in the evening after he’d had his supper and pressed a wet rag over his face until he’d passed out. He hadn’t liked that much. It made it worse. 

 

“Do you still have the nightmares?” Yes. Of course he did. Of course,  _ he _ hadn’t gone away. As if it was going to be that easy. Patrick scratched the back of his neck, convincing himself the tickle he’d felt hadn’t come from a breath of cold air from cold lungs against his skin. He bit his lip, certain his expression would give away the answer without him having to admit to anything.

 

He wasn’t mad, he  _ wasn’t _ . 

 

“Your… mother has been asking for you.” His mother? Patrick’s ears picked up and his eyes widened, staring at the clipboard in the doctor’s hand as if he could read it from his spot at the other end of the room. “She wants to know when you’ll be released… do you want to know when you’ll be released?”

 

“Yes.” A series of coughs tore through his body, shaking his bones and reminding him that he needed to drink. “Yes.” 

 

The nurses came towards him, one on either side, they gripped his arms, firmly but not painfully, the way he was familiar with from being taken to wash or change. Thankfully, they didn’t cuff him. He so hated having his hands restrained. 

 

“You can leave… as soon as you’re better.” His heart dropped. He couldn’t help it, he knew it was pointless. He was  _ never _ going to be better because there… there was no better version of him. He’d been having nightmares for as long as he could remember. Who was he without  _ him _ ? Whilst he wasn’t sure there was an answer, Patrick was burning to know. Would he stop running from his own shadow and get a fucking good night’s sleep just once? One damned time, that was all he asked.

 

“Thankfully for you…” They didn’t turn off right to the washrooms, but carried on straight down the corridor, filthy, tiled walls reflecting dim light and the concrete floor tracking every one of Patrick’s dragged, shuffling steps, the  _ scrape scrape scrape _ of his feet against it making him realize why his neighbour insisted on filling the silence with carvings in cracking walls. “... we’re testing a new form of therapy. You see, the brain is… quite marvellous, it’s basically a collection of electrical currents, making a million, billion connections each second.” 

 

Patrick was practically dragged up the iron stairs, suddenly realizing he really,  _ really _ needed to drink as his knees buckled beneath him. 

 

“It is more than likely that the currents in your brain simply need… re-aligning.” Patrick was too dizzy to question why he was being strapped onto the table he’d just laid down on. It was fine, he’d been secured like this before. They were probably just scared he’d… he’d lash out again. He was dangerous, after all…

 

“Now, admittedly, this is a little experimental.” Something was pressed against his temple, something cold and it made Patrick squirm. A sudden feeling of primal dread began bubbling in his stomach. “But worst case, it doesn’t work. Now, bite down on this.” Patrick didn’t have much choice but to take the block of rubber being held to his mouth between his teeth. He did as he was told. It was probably easier. They knew what they were doing, right? And if he was honest, the prospect of being free seemed perfectly thrilling. He did miss his mother dearly.

 

A low buzzing sounded through the room and Patrick tried to cling to the thought of his mother, pushing that sickening feeling aside. It was nothing, he was sure of it, they knew what they were doing.

 

“Now. This… might hurt.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Patrick… Patrick! Patrick!” The world was out of focus and nothing but searing pain shot through his senses. Everything was lopsided, the axis of reality shifted to the right… or the left, he wasn’t sure, but he grappled around in the dark, desperate for some light, to make it go away, he needed it to go away, he needed  _ him _ to go away because it wasn’t working, for all the pain, it wasn’t working and he wasn’t free and he wasn’t going to be free and he wanted his mom, his mom, his  _ mom! _

 

“Shh, shh, calm down, calm down, I’m not your mom, but it’s gonna be okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, calm down.” He was awake. Patrick knew that mainly because he was trembling like a leaf and covered in a sheen of ice-cold sweat. He held his hands up so he could look at their outline against the dim light bleeding through the cracked door. Somebody was shuffling around outside. He’d been here for nearing two months now and he still didn’t know any of his fellow inmates, not one. He knew their screams and cries and the sounds of their manic voices that made him wonder if he sounded like that when he woke up in the middle of the night, too, or if there was anything left to distinguish him from the insane. There was a shadow in the corner of the room behind the door, watching him. Patrick’s eyes fixed on it.

 

“Hey, Patrick, come on… it’s fine, you’re safe.” Something told him it was Carah, some distant corner of his brain that had shaved yesterday morning and bathed at some point in the last four days. That part of him wasn’t watching the shadow in the corner of his room, the one that stared right back. 

 

The hand cupping his cheek was what made him tear his eyes away. He cast them down in embarrassment as he felt a tear trickle down his face, hot and wet and filled with shame. At least he hadn’t pissed himself. 

 

Carah was nice to him. She was always nice. She talked to him when she brought him his meals, she held his hand when she took his blood and she was never there to drag him into that ghastly room with the hardwood table. She only ever took him to the washroom, handed him fresh clothes, waited outside the door for him to re-emerge, sometimes she even shaved him. She couldn’t let him do that, obviously, he couldn’t be trusted. 

 

“I… I’m… I’m…” His eyes were darting around the room, never staying fixed on one object for more than a second. The wall, the wardrobe, the door, the foot of his bed, the wall…

 

“D’you wanna get some fresh air? Clear your head? Or maybe wash? No offence, but… you look awful.” He found her hazel eyes, clear and kind and offering him at least a bit of freedom. He wasn’t sure she was allowed to do this, was she risking punishment if he agreed? But the crack of light was too inviting and he found himself nodding before he could overthink it too much.

 

“The… fresh air, I…” He hadn’t been outside in weeks.

 

She helped him up, a hand under each arm, pulling him off the bed until he was standing, admittedly on wobbly legs, but standing nonetheless. Patrick felt slender fingers lace with his, her palm warm against his. Carah smiled at him promisingly as she lead him out of the cell, into the warm light of the corridor that was usually anything but inviting. Between stripping naked in front of strangers and the therapy he had less and less faith in every time he woke up and saw yellow eyes glowing in the corner of his mind, he’d take his cold, cramped, grey room. At least nobody hurt him there. Nobody unfamiliar. 

 

The asylum was far from silent at night. As the city slept around them, the inmates screamed and chanted mumbled words that might be prayers, might be curses, might be messages from god or the devil or both, banged against doors, clawed at walls or simply cried. Were it not for that damp rag, Patrick would never sleep. 

 

And then cold, fresh air hit his face for the first time in almost two months. He breathed it in like he was drowning, like he’d broken the ocean’s surface or just woken up. It was almost quiet on the outside, even if he wasn’t sure where they were. There were stars, though, twinkling in the dark above him. He’d not thought about them in a long time. He’d sort of forgotten they existed, that the night wasn’t all dark and lonely. 

 

“Feeling any better?” 

 

“Yeah… thanks.” Patrick tried to smile at her from behind his scraggly beard. To his surprise, she reached out for it. Patrick recoiled when she began stroking his cheek. 

 

“Suits you”, Carah commented, “the beard. Very… manly. Looks good.” Patrick couldn’t say he didn’t blush a little bit, but he hoped his manly beard disguised the sudden redness of his cheeks as he focused on playing with his fingers with a little smile on his face. Wow, when had he last smiled? No, actually, he knew exactly when…

 

“You’re not like the others in here, are you, Patrick?” She’d opened her ponytail. Her hair looked longer now, it fell freely around her face. It was rather nice. Though Patrick wasn’t quite sure what she meant. He figured looking at her wide-eyed and clueless would probably tickle further explanation out of her, or he hoped it, anyway, and Patrick knew he was good at wide-eyed innocence, if nothing else.

 

Carah didn’t explain. Carah kissed him. And, to Patrick’s utter surprise, he kissed back. He cupped her face, her cheekbone pressed beneath his thumb, her lips dry and chapped against his own, like she spent more time working than worrying about her appearance, a stark contrast to the softness of her hands he’d become so familiar with. It was nice. Though Patrick wasn’t quite sure what about it was was nice, Carah or the kiss or the simple, basic human affection. Fuck, he missed his mom. 

 

He knew the moment she broke away, could tell from the glint in her eyes she knew what she was doing, she knew what she  _ wanted _ . She wasn’t like… like…

 

“I- I’m not sure… we…” He wanted to object, but a finger pressed against his lips, silencing him and it was all the argument he needed to ignore his brain. 

 

He kissed her again, harder, still not sure if he wanted her or affection, still not certain if he didn’t just need  _ something _ that stopped him from feeling like the shell he had become. All that mattered was that it felt good and Patrick hadn’t felt good in a very long time. He felt a hand in his hair, curling into it and tugging carefully as the other was slung around his shoulders and pulled him closer until their bodies were pressed together with no space between them. He wanted this. He wanted her. 

 

Patrick whined pathetically when she slid a thigh between his legs. He found himself pathetically humping it, the way he was almost embarrassed to admit he used to do with his pillow when he was a teen. It was a frustrating amount of friction he’d always rather enjoyed, that bit of stimulation enough to feel nice but not enough to make it feel better. 

 

Carah let out a little mewl, barely loud enough for him to hear but enough for him to tease a hand beneath her skirt. Her panties were damp and whilst Patrick was far from familiar with… female anatomical functions, he knew it was a good sign. He was doing something right. She moaned when he feathered a finger against her through the fabric, feeling her heat against his skin, stuttering a litany of  _  please please please _ as he pulled the cotton inside, as he reached down with his other hand to hitch his own gown up over his hips, all the while making her squirm against him and take sharp breaths into the darkness around them. 

 

Patrick was hard and throbbing by the time he managed to get a hand on his cock.This part he was familiar with, he knew how to work his own hand over his flushed skin so it felt good, knew how hard to squeeze to send a shudder down his spine, knew when to swipe his thumb over his slit. This was familiar. His other hand must have been doing the right thing, too, the more he rubbed against her, the easier it got, her own wetness helping him. He didn’t know what he was doing but he didn’t seem to be making a total fool of himself. 

 

“Fuck… get… get inside me, fuck me, Patrick… I need you to…” He wanted to. Here he was, pressed against a beautiful girl, hiding by the back exit in the dark, with her chanting his name like a prayer, his dick hard and leaking, her legs open, inviting, asking for him to just…

 

“No, no… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I… shouldn’t have…” Patrick sprang back like he’d been burned, fixing his gaze on the ground, not capable of looking her in the eye. He couldn’t look her in the eye, he couldn’t do this.

 

“Yes!” He heard her walking back towards him. Patrick’s hands flew up in front of him, outstretched and defensive. He was dangerous. He was mad. He couldn’t… he didn’t want to…

 

“I don’t… please, I don’t wanna hurt you, I can’t… can’t hurt you…” A glance up at her confirmed she was smiling, though not warmly like he remembered, it was almost a sneer, mocking him, what kind of a man was he? “Please, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

“Hurt me? You idiot, you wouldn’t hurt me.” He couldn’t walk backwards anymore. The cold brick of his prison pressed against his back, capturing him even on the outside. “It’ll be good,” she purred, “It’ll be nice,” Patrick turned his face away when she leaned in to kiss him, “and wet and warm. Come on, Patrick.”

 

“No, please... “ There was no way out, trapped between her and the asylum. He panicked when she reached out a hand. 

 

Carah screamed when he grabbed her hair and  _ pulled _ , tugged her,  _ dragged  _  her head back, away from him. Her hand clawed at his, sharp nails digging into his soft flesh until he was certain it cracked and broke like porcelain. 

 

“Fuck you!” She screamed at him, still trapped against the wall.

 

“Let me go, please…” He couldn’t lash out, he couldn’t, he had to get past her somehow, he needed to get  _ away _ , scrub the sex off his body, scrub  _ her _ off his body. 

 

“You’re a fucking crazy,” she spat, “you fucking  _ want _ me, just… just fucking…” 

 

Patrick snapped when she reached for him again. This time he didn’t just pull her hair, this time he grabbed her shoulders, channeling all his panic and fear and total, fucking hopelessness into shoving her, hard as he could, away from him. Patrick wanted to run. He wanted to push her away and bolt, back to his cell, his hard bed, his solitude. He must be able to outrun her somehow, he  _ must _ . 

 

The sound stopped him in his tracks, two paces away from where he’d been trapped seconds before. Bile rose in his throat as he saw the look on Carah’s face, the pure horror on it as she stared at her crimson red, blood-soaked hand. She didn’t speak, but Patrick knew, knew from the colour of her usually blonde hair, knew from the splatter on the wall behind her, knew from the way she shot him one last look, eyes burning with accusation, before she slumped to the floor. Still. Silent. Lifeless. 

 

He knew what he should do. He should run towards her, call help, check she was alive, get her indoors. He ran. He’d always known his fight or flight response, his entire life he’d been a runner-and-hider, staying as far away from any kind of trouble as he could. He found the iron staircase eventually, the one that would take him to his room. Two steps at a time saw him back inside it, door slammed shut behind him, within half a minute, his chest heaved with the effort of fighting air into his lungs and he’d never been more thankful for the shitty food that had made him drop so much of the weight he hadn’t had to drag with him. 

 

Maybe he could sleep. Just this once. 

 

There was no blood on him this time.

  
  
  
  
  


They came early next morning. It was doctor Smith with two men. They looked scary. Patrick cowered on his bed. He hadn’t slept.

 

“I think you know why we’re here…” He didn’t nod, there was no need for him to.

 

The two men took his arms, gripping on until it hurt and Patrick could feel the fingerprint bruises colouring his skin purple, and dragged him off his bed, out of the room without a word. He didn’t struggle, only glanced over his shoulder to reassure himself that doctor Smith was still there. He couldn’t be alone. 

 

They didn’t take him to the usual therapy room, they walked right past it and continued down the hallway. It was cleaner up here and it didn’t stink of shit quite as badly, not that that made the place any less harrowing. 

 

“I was somewhat hoping,” Smith began, almost absent-mindedly as Patrick was dragged into one of the rooms towards the far end of the corridor, “that it wouldn’t get to this point. That electro therapy would be enough but I’m afraid we can’t exactly rely on… slow solutions. Even if it would be the safer option.” He was roughly shoved onto a table not unlike the one he’d become used to. Patrick’s eyes darted around the room in search for the apparatus that sent that crippling pain surging through his body at carefully planned intervals. The leather buckles cut into him even through his gown, tighter than usual. 

 

“It’s obvious that you’re not getting any better. She’s dead, you know? You killed her.” Patrick wasn’t certain who Smith was referring to, but it didn’t matter, did it? He hoped… he hoped… oh, but wasn’t he horrendous? Every girl he laid his hands on… was he little more than his animal instincts? He didn’t deserve freedom. His poor mother.

 

“We’ve decided to operate. I really did hope this could be avoided by the new therapy, but oh well… you’re a more serious case than we’d anticipated.” Operate. Patrick was sure he shouldn’t be crying, but he was scared. He was so, so scared. He just wanted to go home… “Your mother knows, she’s given us the go-ahead. Anything to make her boy healthy, she said.” Would he be allowed home? But, oh… was he safe? Would he be allowed near anybody ever again? Or was he doomed to live out the rest of his life in cautious solitude? 

 

“The lobotomy should stop your dreams, which we think are the reason for your… behavioural problems. I won’t go into the details of what we do, but when you wake up, Patrick…” His eyes fixed on the doctor who’d leaned over him, the only thing in his line of sight, barely recognizable against the harsh light behind him, “when you wake up, you’ll be normal.” 

 

_ Normal. _ He’d be like everybody else, like his mum and Mrs Finch and Greta and-

 

Lobotomy. 

 

He was so scared. “Will I…” he choked on his own tongue falling back in his head “will I… you… what if I… I mean could I, could… could I-” he couldn’t say it, he couldn’t find the word. So abstract, ever present, it happened to everybody around him, he’d never known either of his grandfathers and his father had left and never come back but it didn’t happen to  _ him _ !

  
“Die?” doctor Smith supplied and Patrick didn’t even need to nod for him to know that was the word Patrick couldn’t find. “Yes, you could. Or worse, even, it’s a risky procedure. But it’s the only chance you have.” Patrick wanted to protest, wanted to say he couldn’t, he wasn’t ready, he was  _ scared _ , but not a word got past his lips before a mask was pressed to them. He knew how this worked, knew this was the same stuff they drenched the rag in when they came to put him to sleep, it had to be, it stung in his temples the same way, it burned in his nostrils and made his eyes run and he knew there was no point in fighting it as his eyes slid shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would be rad, I don't get paid for this, laddies.  
> my tumblr is scmi-sweet


	3. Now I'm The One Who's Letting Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the massive 10k chapters commence. thanks snitchesandtalkers and das_verlorene_kind for helping me out and uh hi to panda haha.

“That’s $4.20, please.” Patrick handed over the change he’d already counted in line with a little smile, bags already slung over his left arm as the cashier was still rattling off his  _ “thank you very much, have a nice day” _ . It wasn’t the store closest to home, the one he’d been fired from for obvious reasons, so he got his bike there. He was a cyclist now, he did that sort of thing. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite shift the paunch of his stomach, no matter how much slimmer his face had become. 

 

The ride home took him about 10 minutes, 10 minutes on a wobbly, rusty old bike he always hoped and prayed kept all its wheels on for the duration of the journey. So far, so good. A 10 minute balancing act with paper bags over either side of the handlebars and on Saturday another one in the basket on the back. He couldn’t fit two in there and only having a bag over one handlebar turned staying upright into a challenge, he’d learned that in practice. So, two bags over the handlebars, one in his basket on a Saturday. He actually liked Saturdays now. They used to be hell, back when he still worked in the shop, Saturdays were  _ always _ bad, but now Saturdays were a day like any other, except for the extra paper bag in the basket at the back of the bike. 

 

It felt so normal, so… suburban. Like he’d never been gone. Like he’d just come home after a shift, his mom waiting for him with a steak and kidney pie ready, kissing his forehead before they sat down to eat, then she’d sat in her armchair knitting whatever it was she’d put her mind to now (Patrick thought he remembered something about it being for the Watsons’ new baby) as he read the day’s paper. Bedtime at 10 p.m., as usual, his mom tucked him in, left the door open just a crack. He’d slept through. All the way through to dawn. And then he’d woken up and realized he had no work to go to. 

 

It wasn’t that he’d been formally fired… well, he had, but it wasn’t like the store owner needed to call him or anything, he just… knew. Of course he knew! As if they were going to just let him back as though nothing had happened.

 

Because much as Patrick tried to pretend it hadn’t, like he’d just woken up after one last, long nightmare, it had happened. He couldn’t change that, his mom couldn’t change that, it just… it had.

 

There was a letter on the table for him when he got home, opened already because she was like that, she still worried. Patrick sighed and let his fingers slide over the torn envelope, already knowing what the contents would be, she’d not be hiding if it was good news. She’d never been good at delivering the bad. 

 

Patrick didn’t read the rejection, he knew what it would say, there were only so many variations of  _ Thank you for you application, however we regret to inform you _ . It went straight into the bin and Patrick made a mental note to head out of  Bayonne on Monday, maybe there’d be work going in Jersey City, or Manhattan, even. Everybody was going to work in Manhattan. Admittedly, Patrick wasn’t a gambling man, he doubted he’d do well in a bank, but the bankers had to eat, right? He’d like to work in a bistro or a café. 

 

“Hi, mom!” he called as he poked his head around the door of the living room, where she sat polishing what little silver she had. It wasn’t much, just a couple of spoons, an old brooch and his dad’s medal, but she looked after what little they had. 

 

“Oh, hello, sweetie,” she’d been crying, “how was it?” He shrugged his overcoat off and threw it over the banister of the stairs.

 

“Nothing special… how old is the Harley’s girl?” Something changed in his mother’s eyes, something so small and subtle, but he noticed it because it shifted into an expression he had never seen on her face before his time away. He decided not to comment on it, too afraid of what it implied. 

 

“She’s 17. Why?” Patrick shrugged.

 

“No reason… just wondering when she got so damn  _ big _ , where was she again? Jail?” It was a joke, he was joking and he thought his chuckle would give that away, but his mom didn’t laugh, she just looked tired.

 

“She was… living with some of her friends, I think… that whole women’s suffrage thing. Suffragettes. I don’t know, getting involved in dangerous… dangerous… You young people. You get into too much trouble.” Patrick didn’t have anything to say to that. He knew how much stress he’d caused her. He knew how much sleep she was losing over him, always had lost over him. No matter if the nightmares had disappeared, they hadn’t taken the guilt he felt when he looked at his mom with them. Patrick quietly slinked off to his room.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Manhattan was so big. Not in the way things are big when you’re a kid, when everybody is so huge and the world seems so exciting and all-encompassing and every tree is yours to climb, more crushing, really. The buildings that towered over him, insect small and insignificant on the pavement, the noise of the streets, vendors calling to sell their wares, the cars blowing their horns, the people talking way too loudly, the smell, the stench of a city, of life in the city, the smell of profit, of crisp, clean dollar bills, wealth, promise and opportunity. Patrick felt perfectly alien among his own people, except they weren’t. He was certain none of the men in their neat suits had killed a woman. 

 

He was branded with it, he knew it, it was a part of him, store after store turned him down when he showed them his papers, sending him to the one further down the road, steadily leading him north. “Try Harrold’s”, “I’m sure Kreuzer down the road will have something”, until he got to “The Irish fellow always has jobs going”, which… Patrick supposed he was Irish himself, but he wasn’t  _ Irish _ Irish. He was American. People recognized him as an American, he  _ wasn’t _ an Irishman. The man stocking the shelves with fresh bread was tall and broad, black haired, green eyed. Patrick was nervous, he’d heard things about the Irishmen, how they were rough and rowdy and Patrick was neither of those things, but the man smiled warmly as Patrick approached, soothing his nerves a little at least.

 

“What can I do for ye?” he asked, in a distinctly  _ not _ American accent, “Don’t worry, I don’t bite! What’ve the lads down street been telling yer about me?” Patrick just shook his head and held out his hand. “Patrick. Stumph.” The man’s face lit up. “Ah, another one! Hey, Paddy, this one’s a Paddy, too!” Patrick looked to the door at the side of the counter, the one the guy had just called to. A brown-haired head popped out, grinning almost as widely, but disappeared again with no comment.

 

“What can I do for yer? I s’ppose you’re not just here for my pastries, though I’ve gotta say they’re rather lovely.” 

 

“They’re still  _ my _ pastries, Andrew, yer dense motherfucker!” Patrick’s heart somewhat warmed when Andrew rolled his eyes at Paddy. Maybe the Irish weren’t so bad after all.

 

“I’m, uh… looking for a job. Actually.” He kicked at the grey tiles on the ground, suddenly way more interesting than the little pies on display. 

 

“Figures. Why come to the Irish?” Patrick shrugged because he didn’t have a good answer that wasn’t the truth and if there was one thing he’d learned in the past month it was that the truth didn’t get him hired.

 

“It’s fine, you can tell me this was yer last option. That’s what we’re here for, pickin’ up Paddies with nowhere else to go.” Patrick bit his tongue to hold back his argument that he wasn’t a Paddy, he was American. He needed work. He needed to eat or to feed his mum, at least. 

 

“Alright, out with it, what have yer done? Stolen a car? Sold a house that doesn’t exist? That’s what Paddy over here did, lemme tell ya, that was a fun night. Oh, you don’t brew, do ya?” Patrick’s frown must have been enough of an answer to him. “Shame. Could do with some brandy. Or that watered down piss you Yanks call beer, at least. Hate having to buy it, it’s so expensive… not that you’re gonna tell anybody I do that, I swear, I’ll cut yer little balls of with a kitchen knife!” Something distant and dark flashed through Patrick’s mind. He shoved it aside hastily. 

 

“Ye’ve gone white as a sheet! Don’t be like that,  s’just a bit of fun. Come on, out with it, why won’t people take you?” He was leaning over the counter, strong, muscular arms propping him up. It was a dumb fucking idea to come here. Patrick was just about to bolt out of the door when a jingling little bell above it notified him that there was now somebody in the way. Patrick turned to chewing up his lip instead.

 

“Peter! How’ve you been doing, my old boy?” 

 

Peter was a short guy, not as short as Patrick, granted, but Patrick wasn’t really a reliable benchmark in questions of height. He reached over the counter to grasp Andrew’s hand in his, holding it like he was genuinely happy to see him. His smile was blinding, even in profile, wide and toothy, familiar but kinder. 

 

“How’re things?” Andrew shrugged. 

 

“Same old, really, nothing special, oh hey, Paddy’s thinking of going all holiday-specific, how would yer fancy Easter cakes?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

 

“The fuck are Easter cakes?” 

 

“They don’t exist yet, duh, but they’re nice, you should take a few!” There was something slightly hesitant about Peter’s stance, Patrick observed, mouth open slightly as he eyed Andrew suspiciously. His eyes drifted down to the display case, boasting an array of mouth-watering treats Patrick wanted to get his teeth around more than anything. 

 

“Alright then… just one will do, though… or, hey, buddy, you want one?” The sudden attention took him completely by surprise, Patrick stared at Peter like a deer in headlights, suddenly aware of his eavesdropping, snooping around other people like he had any business to. 

 

“I… I…” Peter turned back to Andrew, not waiting for Patrick’s response.

 

“One for this little guy, too.” Patrick  _ was _ going to protest, but the little tarts suddenly produced by Andrew looked a little too nice to resist. And they were. The sweet, creaminess of the filling was contrasted perfectly by the slightly sour fruit. What exactly made them Easter-specific, Patrick wasn’t sure. 

 

“Good God, Andrew, these are delicious!” Peter declared, shovelling his into him like there was no tomorrow. Andrew smiled at them.

 

“That’ll be 24 cents, please.” Patrick all but choked on the pastry sliding down his throat. He glanced over to Peter, whose eyes were bulging, was staring daggers in Andrew, whose grin had not slipped off his face.

 

“You’re a bastard, Andrew, no, I’ve got it,” Peter insisted when Patrick tried to hand him 12 cents. 

 

“Nothing in life is free, my dear”, he declared as the coins clattered in the till. Peter rolled his eyes and shoved the last of his cake down. 

 

“So, Paddy”, Andrew’s attention was back on him now, “what is it you’ve done? Bootlegging? Don’t worry, we’ve all done that.” Patrick nervously glanced at Peter, who was leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on him so firmly he felt like he was being taken apart and examined under a microscope. 

 

“Don’t worry about Peter here, he looks all charming but he’s a little devil, I’m telling yer!” Andrew punctuated with a wink. Somehow, Patrick didn’t believe him. Sure, Peter may have… bootlegged or whatever, but he didn’t… he wasn’t… 

 

Patrick silently handed Andrew his papers, the ones that now marked him a criminal. For life. This was who he was now. He didn’t look at the Irishman as he read, choosing instead to closely examine a speck of dirt on his left shoe.

 

“Hm, I see…” Patrick didn’t look up. “Well, my friend… this is quite the… nobody trusts an Irishman, you see? They all think we’re liars and thieves, but I can tell you I haven’t ever stolen anything. Still, this is… the place to work if you don’t have anywhere else, really, but… murder?” Patrick was sure is he clamped his teeth over his lip any harder, he’d taste blood. 

 

“You seem a good lad. I’m… I don’t want to have to turn you away, but-” Of course. Not even the Irish would take him. 

 

“You need work?” Peter looked casual, unmoved by the revelation, he was still lounging against his spot on the wall, legs crossed, head tipped back. Patrick shrugged, not really knowing what else to do and not trusting his voice in that moment. “I run my own little business, it’s a sort of supplier for parties and things. I could do with somebody to run errands for me, I don’t really have enough time myself.” 

 

“Are you… offering me a job?” He could feel his heart rate picking up, ridiculous as it was, but maybe…

 

“Sure. Might not be, like, the dream, but it’s work. And I pay fairly. You’ll get 50 cents  for an hour, how does that sound?” Like heaven, honestly, that was twice the amount he’d been making back when he’d started at the grocery store. Peter was staring at him, wide-eyed, brows raised, and Patrick realized, oh yeah, maybe he should reply! 

 

“I’m… yeah! Definitely, yeah, but what about the…” His grin was, again, blinding. All teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

 

“I feel everybody deserves a second chance, don’t worry about it, man.” Patrick wasn’t sure he did, but he desperately, desperately needed the money. He’d not told his mom how short on cash they were, didn’t want to worry her even more, but if he didn’t find work soon… “Can you start tomorrow? I have a load of orders tomorrow, it’s weird.” 

 

Tomorrow? Like… tomorrow tomorrow? Straight away? Immediately? It wasn’t like Patrick had anything else to do. 

 

“Sure.”

 

“Awesome!” Peter slapped his shoulder in that brotherly way that always made Patrick’s insides rattle. He kinda hated it, but he supposed he just had to put up with that. “I’ll see you tomorrow, 11 a.m. Oh, umh… just back here, if that’s alright?” Andrew sighed heavily implying that, no, it was not alright, but Peter thanked him loudly and slipped out of the store before he could protest. 

 

“Don’t make a habit of it!” he yelled after him, but the door had already swung shut. He tutted, turning back to his display of pastries. “Fucker didn’t even bring me my money…” he muttered under his breath. Not really knowing what else to do, Patrick mumbled his goodbyes and left, door jingling in his wake. 

 

He had a fucking job. He didn’t have to starve just yet.

  
  
  
  
  


Peter was already waiting when he got there. He checked his watch just to make sure he really wasn’t late, which, no, he was early, but there he was, left foot kicked up against the wall as he slowly baked in the sun. Patrick noticed something dark against his skin, poking out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket. 

 

“Uh… hi!” Pete grinned at him, flicking away the cigarette he’d been smoking. “Patrick!” Patrick frowned. 

 

“Wait, how do you know my name?” 

 

“I’m your employer now, I know everything about you, that’s how it works.” Patrick’s eyebrow twitched, the way it always did when he could  _ sense _ he was being made fun of. Peter shrugged. “I just presumed Paddy was short for Patrick.” Of course. The fucking Irish… “Nice scar.” Peter wasn’t even looking at the cut in his eyebrow, instead rummaging in his inside pocket.

 

“Take this to this address,” he handed Patrick a slip of paper, “throw the paper away when you’re done or whatever, I don’t care. Go straight there, don’t open it, I’ll know. I think you need work more than I need you.” Patrick nodded obediently. He had no desire to look anyway. 

 

“Good. Off you go. Back here in an hour.” It seemed simple enough. An hour was plenty of time to take the envelope he’d been handed over the bay and return. Peter was already heading off when he looked back up, the back of his close-shaved head disappearing round the block.

 

Patrick wasn’t sure whether to ring the bell of the house he’d been directed to. It had a large garden, multiple storeys and smelled of money, more money than he had or could ever dream of having. He didn’t see a letterbox  he could drop it in either, though, and besides, that didn’t guarantee that the recipient really got it. It only took him five minutes of deliberation before eventually pulling the old-fashioned bell. It was no exaggeration to say the man who opened the door looked like he lived in the house, hair slicked back sensibly, dressed in a white shirt and tan trousers, looking down at Patrick with that snot-nosed look that said “I’m better than you”. Patrick wordlessly held out the envelope. He hadn’t been told to say anything, he’d spent the entire bike ride thinking of what to say until he’d come to the conclusion that just keeping his mouth shut was probably the safest bet. 

 

The envelope was snatched off him with a glare and torn open right in front of him. It was empty. Patrick could feel his brow twitching, but before he could think about it any more, the door was slammed in his face. Well, the guy must know what to do with it… not really much more he could do here, was there? Patrick tried not to think too hard about it as he got back on his bike. 

 

The next delivery was practically thrown at him, Peter was speaking to another man, tall, lanky, dark hair, mischievous sort of face, when he arrived back on the corner, he wordlessly handed him the parcel, too involved in what seemed to be an argument to pay him much attention. Same business, Patrick took it to the address he had been given - a more modest house this time - handed it to the lady who answered the door, was thanked this time, even handed a tip of 5 cents,  headed back to where Peter was waiting for him. The tall guy had gone.

 

“I need you to get something for me this time, except I’m not sure where it is.” He gave Patrick a look like he wasn’t sure he could handle that, having to find his own way around the city he had grown up in. 

 

“I know New York pretty well. I’m sure I’ll find my way.”  Peter looked unconvinced.

 

“Fine, if you say so. You’re looking for a guy in a dark blue trench coat and a black hat in Unionport. He’ll know who you are.” Unionport? Unionport was… was big, he needed  _ more _ than that! He could be looking for him all day!

 

As though he could read his mind, Peter gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry, man, it’s all I have to work with. I can go myself if you want, it’s fine, just come back tomorrow and-”

 

“No!” Patrick cleared his throat, trying to wordlessly convey that he had not meant to be quite so vehement, “no, I mean… I mean that’s what I’m for, right? So you can get your own work done.” Peter grinned at him, the blinding smile, and clapped his shoulder. 

 

“Good man. If he gives you something, drop it off here. You can head home after, thank you.” Oh. That was all? Wait, what about his paycheck? Surely-

 

“Oh, of course, your money, umh… hang on.” Patrick watched as Peter dug around in his pocket and produced a wad of dollar bills. His eyes widened as he was handed a stack. “That should probably be enough for today… if you take much longer finding the guy, just… ring the bell later and I’ll give you the rest, yeah?” Patrick tried not to visibly count the money, but years of working on a till meant it didn’t take him much to be able to tell he’d just been given $5. For three hours of work! 

 

He wanted to thank Peter, he really did, but he’d already disappeared. 

  
  
  
  


Patrick understood why he’d been given so much money, understood why Peter had said he could go home after this as he cluelessly stood on the dock, scanning the crowds for a guy in a dark blue trench coat and a black hat. Problem was, there were dozens of him. Every second man seemed to fit that descriptio. He’d already grabbed the arms of five guys, thinking they were the men he was looking for, they’d all shaken him off in annoyance, one even accusing him of pickpocketing and threatening to call the cops on him. 

 

Needless to say, he was hesitant to approach anybody else. So he stood between the stands of fishermen selling their catch and the mothers buying it with their husband’s wages, little children on their hands or bellies filled with them and Patrick kept watching the crowd. 

 

It was dark when he found him, or rather, he was found. 

 

“You’re Peter’s newest pet, I take it?” Patrick frowned at the man who’d just walked right up to him, collar upturned. 

 

“I’m his employee, yes.” The man scoffed. “Okay. Sure. Bring him this, I hope it’s all he needs.” And that was it, he headed off again. Six hours Patrick had waited, six hours with the wind from the bay beating around his ears. He didn’t want to step out of line, so he didn’t throw any of the questions he had at the man, much as he wanted to.

 

It was 8 p.m. by the time he got on his bike. His mom would be wondering where he was. Worrying, more likely. 

 

Morrisania. That was where he was headed. He avoided it after dark, usually. If you were going to get murdered, there was the place to do it. He had no choice but to go there now, at least if he wanted to keep this job and he did! It was a lot of money and not very hard to make, even if he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of making long waits a part of his routine. 

 

Peter’s house, or the address he’d been given, which he  _ assumed _ was Peter’s, was… grand. That was probably how best to describe it. A dark facade, four broad windows either side of the double doors, light only coming from two on the top floor and Patrick was beginning to wonder just how much money there was in party planning. He contemplated ringing, not because he’d been underpaid, but because he was intrigued, he wanted to see the inside of the building, but he was aware of the time and the fact that his mother was probably minutes away from calling the police, so he dropped the small parcel into the letter box the way he’d been instructed. 

 

He even made it home without being murdered. His mom was fast asleep in the armchair.

  
  
  
  


Money had never been easy for Patrick, always coupled with hours upon hours of hard work on a couple of hours’ worth of sleep on the good days, mind everywhere but the little shop. It wasn’t exactly easy with Peter, the distances got further and further, it was exhausting and sometimes he worked until nearing midnight, but it wasn’t… unpleasant. Unless it was raining. But he was out, he was moving, not stuck in a shop somewhere. And Peter was nice, always offering him that blinding white grin. And so the weeks ticked by, Patrick’s pile of savings steadily grew throughout. He was thinking about having the kitchen renovated, it was in a desperate state, he was sure his mom would appreciate that. His own little way of making the fact he was out so late up to her. She told him she didn’t worry about him anymore, but somehow he doubted that. She’d worried about him for the past 25 years, he couldn’t imagine her stopping now. 

 

It was June when Patrick was making his usual evening drop-off at Peter’s house, the one he still hadn’t ever been in, and the door opened. He froze, hand halfway to the letterbox. Peter froze, coat half-buttoned, the fringe he seemed to be growing out flopping over his right eye. 

 

“Patrick!” He was about to reply when another head popped out. It was the tall dude, the one that was sometimes talking to Pete when Patrick came to collect a delivery. 

 

“You’re Patrick!” Patrick nodded.

 

“I’m Patrick.”

 

“Gabe. Don’t call me Gabriel ever.” Patrick saluted him.

 

“Aye Aye, sir.” A cheeky grin crossed Gabe’s  face and he turned to Peter, still standing on the doorstep. 

 

“I like him, can we keep him?” A small chuckle escaped Peter, who finally walked down the steps until he was on Patrick’s level. He really wasn’t much taller than him. 

 

“Sure, Patrick here is pretty quick. And reliable. `S all I need, really.” A little pride welled in Patrick’s chest and he smiled gratefully. It was nice to have his work appreciated. “Gabe and I are just headed out, y’know, just to unwind a bit. Wanna come?” Patrick glanced over at Gabe, an unspoken question on his lips.

 

“You can come if you want,” he said, “it’ll be fun!” He glanced at his watch. 10 p.m. He should probably be getting home, but then again… he liked Peter. And getting to know his colleagues a bit couldn’t hurt, really, in fact, it was probably a good idea if he was going to be working here for a while yet, and he didn’t intend on quitting.

 

“Okay, yeah, sure. Why not?” Pete clapped his shoulder. He was getting used to that.

 

“Good man! The more the merrier, come on.”  

 

It was raining, which made the whole journey somewhat unpleasant. Patrick huddled into his brown coat, pulling it around him in a desperate attempt to stay dry. Peter and Gabe didn’t seem to care much, unbothered by the water soaking through their clothes. He didn’t want to ask how much longer still, for fear of coming off as an annoying child or less of a man, but he didn’t much fancy getting a cold. 

 

Patrick smacked head-on into a leather-clad back, stumbling awkwardly as he tried to find his balance again. 

 

“You alright there, Trick?” Oh, his cheeks didn’t at all flush bright red with shame when he saw the amusement in Peter’s face. What was that about not wanting to be an annoying child? He awkwardly mumbled a half-apology-half-complaint, eyes firmly fixed on  _ not Peter _ , as Gabe chuckled next to him. Not at all humiliating. 

 

It turned out they had, in fact, stopped because they had, in fact, arrived at their destination which was, in fact, a carpet shop. Patrick raised an eyebrow at his reflection in the darkened window, proudly displaying  _ Rayman Rugs _ in big, bold letters, the rain thundering against them definitely nicer to hear from the inside, Patrick decided. 

 

“They’re closed, what’re you doing?” Peter, apparently, was illiterate, the obvious  _ We’re Closed  _ sign on the door not enough to stop him from trying the knob. 

 

“That sign won’t stop me because I can’t read”, was Peter’s only comment as he pushed the door open, stepping into the darkness beyond and leaving Patrick blinking on the pavement. Behind him, Gabe was still giggling to himself.

  
“He’s just like that. You’ll get used to it,” he reassured before following suit. Disappearing into the carpet shop. Patrick frowned at the blacked-out window, the rug hanging up in it colourless in darkness, looming over the blocky letters painted onto the shop front. Everything inside of him protested as he pushed the door open because this was probably fucking  _ illegal _ , but he did it anyway. 

 

Gabe and Peter were waiting at the back, lazily leaning against the wooden paneling of the wall. Peter’s grin even shone in perpetual darkness.

 

“Welcome… to fuckin’ heaven, my friend.” 

 

It took Patrick a moment to place the source of the golden light that suddenly flooded the room, but Gabe’s push to his shoulder, sending him tripping towards the door that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, soon made him realize. Hesitantly, he glanced at Gabe, whose eyes were fixed on the stairs beyond. Hand gripping the metal railing, Patrick carefully made his way down the uneven stone steps, the sound of hard soles against rock echoing behind him reassuring him that he was being followed by the other two. Somehow, Patrick felt like he should be… weary at least, but he wasn’t. He  _ shouldn’t _ be doing this, yes, he was aware, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to. Besides, too late to turn back now, right?

 

The first thing he noticed was the smell and,  _ boy _ , did it hit him square in the face at full-force. It was bitter, sour and acidic all at once, burning in his nostrils and his throat, the cloud of smoke filling the room settling over his vision and his lungs and mingling with the smell like oil on water: completely and not at all. A strong hand his him on the back, right between his shoulder blade and with so much impetus it drew all air from him. 

 

“This is the life, Trickster. Hey, Dirty, three strong ones, pronto!” Everything was so close, so loud, so much, so… so… 

 

“I know,” Peter’s voice came almost out of nowhere, although Patrick wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped talking, “bit much at first, this your first time ever?” Patrick glanced around, the dim lights, the men clutching glasses so hard he was surprised they weren’t breaking, loud laughter and louder arguments and mismatched furniture sticky with… he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

 

“Yeah…” The sour, acidic smell of somebody’s insides drifted through his nose to a distant corner of his brain that had been forged in four months of the stench. Something cold was pressed into his hand, when he looked down, he saw the glass, amber liquid swirling inside like honey. Patrick was pretty certain it wasn’t honey. When he raised his gaze, he saw Peter, his eyes the same colour of whatever alcohol had just been pressed into his palm, devilish grin splitting his face in half, mingling with the sour at the back of his brain. Patrick glanced at one of the men hanging off his, chair, barely alive by the looks of things, a low groaning constantly emitting from his limp body as his eyes rolled in his skull. He glanced back down at his glass. 

“Come on, Trick,” Peter urged him on, “this is good stuff, clean, safe. You don’t need to worry about it.” Somehow, Patrick doubted that. He frowned over at the man that was barely alive, a drooling mess that reminded him too much of surging pain and burning tears, rubber bit jammed between his teeth like a horse. 

 

“It’s illegal”, he muttered under his breath, not even sounding convincing to himself. Peter just chuckled.

 

“And as we all know, you are a law-abiding citizen.”

 

A hand wrapped itself around his, pressing his fingers closer to the glass. Peter’s palms were rough and dry, skin cracking under neglect and labour, so different to Patrick’s own smooth skin, the honey gold of Peter’s all the darker against the snow white of Patrick’s. He let his hand be lifted, kept his eyes locked with Peter’s as the cool glass touched his lips, as Peter’s face twisted into a satisfied smirk when the alcohol hit his tongue, burned down his throat. He couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to, glass in his hand but in Peter’s control, inclined so the liquid wouldn’t stop running, until a drop rolled down his chin and stained the collar of his shirt. 

 

The whiskey was boiling hot in the pit of his stomach and Patrick wanted,  _ needed _ Peter to tell him he’d done well. As though he could read minds, he nodded, the satisfied smirk settling into a kind smile and Patrick’s chest swelled. He watched Peter as he tipped his drink back in one, eyes locked on the elegant arch of his throat, the grey shadow of a beard showing through his skin. 

 

Before he knew it, something new had been pressed into his hand, it smelled sweeter, the colour of it not quite such a deep amber, more of a light blonde. He didn’t need Peter’s help this time, or Gabe’s, who he had forgotten for a second there. Their glasses clashed, the sound of it rattling around his skull before being dampened by another layer of senselessness. 

 

And it felt good. 

 

Patrick didn’t know how much he had, how many he’d lifted to his lips himself, how many more Peter had fed him once he was barely able to hold a feather, but by god, it felt good.

  
  
  
  
  


The nights get longer, the drinks get harder and Patrick needs more and more of them to get to that sweet spot where he can just  _ forget _ , where he doesn’t think about his worrying mother, the repairs to the house that need to be made, the fucking headache that never quite seems to leave, that nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he’s sure should mean something but somehow doesn’t ever come to any conclusions, those four months that he’s almost sure will never leave him. Except when he has what must be nearing a pint of whiskey in his gut, bonus points for every beer he manages to tip down. 

 

Peter doesn’t have to guide it down his throat anymore, in fact, Peter is often too far-gone by the time Patrick reaches the stage where he cannot physically hold the bottle to do anything much than smirk at him proudly. Patrick feels good about it, about himself, he doesn’t know how many people work for Peter, he has no idea, but after a while, even Gabe isn’t a frequent member of their little party anymore and more often than not, it’s just the two of them hunched over the table in the corner of the room, occasionally joined by some blonde that ends up attached to Peter’s face. It’s not like Patrick couldn’t get it, he’s attractive now, he knows that, spends time standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, gelling his hair, tracing the cheekbones that had been hidden away beneath layers of fat, even his gut was beginning to shrink, the last of the puppy fat clinging to his chin gradually disappearing. 

 

Patrick’s hot now. He sees the looks from the few girls that venture into the speakeasy, he catches their eye but he won’t follow up. He’ll never follow up.

 

At least until Peter decides otherwise. 

 

Patrick follows him through the dark streets of Morrisania, never still, never silent. This is where the city lives at night, the drunkards and the whores, the men tired of their wives and the thieves and beggars, the lowest of the low, more blacks than whites a lot of the time. He wonders where Peter falls on the scale, wonders what colour his skin adopts when it’s left in the sun, if he turns red like Patrick or a rich gold like the light sweep of colour he already carries would suggest. 

 

Patrick doesn’t question it when Peter doesn’t take the usual turns, when he doesn’t pick the usual alleys and corners, when he leads him further than usual. He follows him into a small courtyard between tall brick buildings without hesitation, doesn’t think twice as they push through heavy, red curtains, greeted by a girl with dark skin and a big, bright smile and cleavage that, frankly, not even Patrick can ignore. He follows Peter to one of the tables, round, surrounded by a cushioned bench, all dark purple velvet, though, Patrick suspects, it’s probably a cheap rip-off. He doesn’t look around until they’re settled down and their coats have been taken by a pale, dark-haired girl, her long, slim legs on display, her stomach muscular, the white expanse of soft skin interrupted only by black lace and black hair cascading over her shoulder like a waterfall. 

 

Peter orders two drinks from her, Patrick doesn’t hear which ones, isn’t listening, eyes fixed on the stage at the bottom of the dimly lit amphitheatre they appear to be seated in. It’s semicircular, illuminated by spotlights, displaying the girls on it, their skirts hitched over their waists, their corsets less than functional, not doing much to cover anything. Patrick glances at Peter, whose eyes are fixed on them, and shifts uncomfortably. 

 

The speakeasies were one thing. The alcohol only harms him.

 

This was something else entirely. 

 

The pale girl approaches them, bending over to serve their drinks in a way Patrick is sure must thrill the men behind her.  _ Gentlemen’s club. _ As if any of them are gentlemen, treating women like meat. They probably have wives at home. Does Peter? Somehow, he doubts that. Patrick watches his as he flashes a cheeky grin at the girl, who winks back. Patrick makes a point of fixing his eyes on his hands, fidgeting in his lap, when he sees her turning to him. He won’t look at her, he  _ won’t _ . He’s learned his lesson. 

 

“Awh, he’s shy”, he hears her coo, tenses as her fingers brush his knee. He won’t let it get to him, he  _ won’t _ . He’s determined not to cave, not to fall for the patronizing tone, not even as Peter chuckles to himself, he can sense his eyes on him, probably making fun of him for not looking at a girl. He doesn’t understand. Patrick can’t go there again. He promised himself that. 

 

“He’ll be fine, just needs to get some of the good stuff down him.” Patrick flicks his eyes over to the short, round glass on the table beside him. He’s not sure what’s filling it, can’t smell it over the scent of her perfume. Her heels click on the floor as she walks off. 

 

“You a virgin?” He’s not sure whether that’s judgement or genuine curiosity in Peter’s voice.

 

“No.” 

 

“Then what are you scared of?” When Patrick looks up, he feels himself relax. Peter is leaning forward, attention focussed on him, something close to concern swimming his his amber eyes. Patrick sighs, taking a swig of his… ew, what the fuck? Nevermind. 

 

“I’m just… the… the girl I… I… well, she was... “ he isn’t sure why he feels he can tell Peter, there’s just… something about him, something calming, like he’s trustworthy, like he’d talk the hind legs off a donkey but never tell it your secret. Patrick doesn’t even have to find the right words, Peter just nods, he gets it. 

 

“Do you wanna leave?” he offers, his soft tone almost taking Patrick aback.  _ Yes.  _ He takes another gulp, making sure the sour liquid doesn’t touch his tongue for too long in the hope that the taste won’t linger then. He won’t follow up on Peter’s offer, he decides, he won’t be the shy idiot who leaves a club, he  _ won’t _ , and if he has to fill his gut with alcohol until he can bare to raise his gaze. 

He doesn’t reply. Peter leans back in his seat, arm slung over the back of it, his drink in the other hand, gaze on the stage, though he’s not watching it, eyes distant and onmoving. Patrick can’t look at it. He just can’t.

 

They leave the club hours later, the morning already chasing the horizon, the streets more empty now than they were the night before, Patrick silently trailing along behind Peter as oxygen mixes with cheap whiskey and leaves him numb.

  
  
  


He falls into bed going on for 6 a.m., intent on catching at least four hours’ worth of sleep before he’s rung out of bed by the shrill alarm he sets himself every day before leaving. He’s never really up for much by the time he gets back. It must be about 8 a.m., he guesses, when his bedroom door creaks open and he decides he really needs to see to those hinges. Not now, obviously.

 

Through the cracks in his eyelids, he sees his mom standing there, half inside his room, half out of it, her arms crossed, her forehead creased. Patrick lets out a low groan and turns onto his back, noticing he’s still fully clothed, his shirt wrapped around him awkwardly. He’s worried that if he says something, he’ll snap, so he stays quiet. 

 

“I never see you anymore, honey”, she states after a couple of moments’ silence. Patrick sighs and somehow manages to push himself up into a sitting position, back pressed against the wall, the gap in his curtains letting the light in just so it falls across his face. “Where are you?”   
  


“Working”, he growls, muscles working around a throat shredded and damaged by too much whiskey and not enough water. 

 

“Working? All the time?” Patrick shrugs as he pushes himself out of bed, every one of his joints cracking loudly as he stretches. “Don’t they give you any time off? What is it you do?”

 

“Deliveries”, he said sharply as he ruffles through his drawer, looking for a pair of socks that isn’t mismatched. “And he does give me time off but in case you haven’t noticed, we really need to do some renovations and I need the money.” Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to dispel the irritation that sparked in him the moment his mom walked in. He turns to look at her, cowered by the door, worrying her thumbnail between her teeth, and walks over, gently putting his hand to the back of her head and planting a soft kiss on her forehead. He looks her right in the eye, her bright blue eyes, the same colour as his, and makes sure to keep his voice calm.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m… just a bit stressed. I won’t… it won’t always be like this, okay? I promise.” She nodded, though still seemed uncertain.

 

“I miss you, Patrick.” He smiles at her. There’re dark shadows beneath her eyes and wrinkles on her brow. 

 

“I know, mom. As soon as the house is sorted, I’ll take fewer hours, promise.” 

 

By the time he gets out of the shower and has had breakfast, got dressed and done his hair, it’s 9.30. He sits at the old, squeaky kitchen table with it’s dents and scratches, two decades’ worth of damage carved into it. It somewhat bothered Patrick that people born in 1900 were 23 now. It bothered him that he was 26. 26! The next stop was 30. Then, all aboard the train to 40, when he’d be bald and getting old. Patrick shudders. 

 

The headlines celebrate economic growth, like the country is saved, the war never happened and everybody works on wall street. Patrick glances at the kitchen, the cracked worktops telling a different story. There’s mold in the corner over the sink, he’s attacked it a few times, but it’s the pipes, they’re leaking, making the whole place damp and musty. Patrick sighs at the black patch staining the ceiling. That’s what he has to tackle first, the pipes, otherwise any other renovation will be pointless. 

 

Peter is waiting for him when he arrives at the house, it’s where he collects his deliveries now, stuffed into the post box more often than not, Peter doesn’t always hand them over in person, but now he’s holding a parcel up to him, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of old string. Patrick knows where these go, he doesn’t need directions, they’re all the same. He pauses before getting on his bike, turning back to Peter, who’s already unlocking the front door.

 

“Hey, uh…” he’s amazed to see that Peter doesn’t seem to be tired, not at all. Patrick is painfully aware of the bags under his own eyes as Peter smiles at him cheerily. “I’m sorry about last night, I just…”

 

He waves a hand dismissively, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter that Patrick probably somewhat ruined his evening. “It’s fine. Not for everybody, I get that.” He really wasn’t going to comment on it or mock Patrick, call him an idiot, point out how stupid he was being, he was just gonna leave it and accept the way things were. It almost makes Patrick feel worse.

  
“No, wait!” He calls to stop him, already turned back to the heavy front door. Patrick still hasn’t actually ever been inside. “I… I was just… I’d like to go again. Someday. I’m… I didn’t wanna spoil your evening and I feel I owe-” Suddenly, Peter is right in front of him, inches away as his right hand cups Patrick’s face gently, amber eyes mustering him like he’s a rare find, like he’s intriguing. 

 

“Don’t be silly, Patrick,” he says, gently, “you don’t owe me anything.” Patrick wants to respond, to argue or thank him, but he can’t quite find the words. “But if you want to go again…”

  
  
  


Patrick sees it from the outside this time, actually paying attention rather than blindly following Peter. No flashy signs, nothing to draw attention to the establishment, not the only one in the area, he noted on the way here. The same girl sees them in and this time, Patrick smiles at her. He follows Peter to the same spot as last night, settles down at the same end of the couch, takes a sip of the same, disgusting drink except this time, he lets the taste linger, lets it make him grimace and shiver until he hears Peter’s gentle laugh.

 

“Not the best, is it?” Patrick shakes his head, “you get used to it. It’s not the worst, either which is something. And so far, I haven’t gone blind from it, which is a good sign.” 

 

“I’m surprised they’re allowed to serve it so openly.”

 

“They’re not. Not everybody gets it. Consider yourself lucky, Trick.” He smirks at Peter, taking another swig. 

 

“You know all the dealers, then? All the places that sell and… whatever?” He doesn’t know the semantics, if he’s honest, isn’t familiar with how these things work. Peter just winks at him but doesn’t answer the question. 

 

“I like your hair,” Patrick offers, gesturing at the long, black fringe that hides half his face. 

 

“Thanks. I like yours.” Patrick just shrugs.

 

“It’s nothing special.”

 

“It’s nice.”    
  


“Thanks.” Peter leans back, head lying over the back of the seat, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Patrick follows his gaze to see the most fabulous array of dim lights above them, painting constellations on a deep blue ceiling. It’s almost beautiful.

 

“Heaven, this place. Absolute heaven.” 

 

“There, there, Pete, you getting carried away?” Patrick jumps at the sudden voice. A girl is standing beside Peter, red hair falling over her shoulders, a thick fringe down to her hazel eyes, burning like fire on her snow-white skin. She’s wearing a corset, laced tight but covering her breasts, contrary to the girls on the stage, her frock short, but not hitched high, leather, fingerless gloves on her hands and high heels on her feet. 

 

She’s beautiful. And Patrick knows he’s staring.

 

“Missy! Good to see you! It’s been…”

 

“Ages, yeah. Who’s your friend?” Patrick’s throat constricts as they both turn to him at once, he sits bolt upright, banging his knee on the table in the process. Her eyes, heavily brimmed with a layer of make-up, scan him up and down, almost deconstructing him.

 

“I, uh…. I- I, I’m…”

 

“This is Patrick”, Peter offers. She walks over to him, coming to a standstill right in front of him, long legs filling his vision. She’s wearing stockings, held up with garters he sees the very tip of before they disappear beneath the hem of her skirt. 

 

“Hi Patrick”, and suddenly, she’s all over him, light as a feather as she sits in his lap, twisted to the side, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other toying with his tie. He can feel himself hardening and tries to shift beneath her. “I’m Missy.” 

 

Of course, that’s not her real name, nobody is called Missy, but Patrick doesn’t care much, if he’s honest. 

 

“Patrick here is one of my best. Always quick, never asks questions. Don’t damage him too much”, Peter laughs. Missy pouts at him, her bright red lips catching the low candlelight surrounding them. Patrick’s eyes almost involuntarily slip down to her breasts, bulging beneath her purple corset, moving in time with her breathing. He bites his lip. Hard. Her hand is pressed flush to his chest and when she turns back to him, her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. 

 

“He’s cute, Pete, let me play with him…” Almost to Patrick’s disappointment, Peter shakes his head. 

 

“Not today, go easy on him. It’s basically his first time here.” 

 

“Aww, how’re you finding it? Is it… fun?” her hand slips down, knuckles stroking over his belly and Patrick almost forgets how to breathe. Oh, but she  _ must _ notice his hard dick digging into her leg. 

 

“Y- hmmm, yeah!” he squeaks, turning bright red from embarrassment, glad the low light is probably concealing the crimson glow of his cheeks. 

 

She shifts in his lap, turning until she’s straddling him, her arms either side of his head and raised up on her knees so her tits are at his eye-level, beautiful, white, just enough of them for him to want more and-

 

“Alright, Missy, come on, leave the poor boy alone.” Patrick wants to protest, wants to tell Peter to fuck off, to leave him alone with her, mind his own business and find a chick of his own, but…

 

Patrick shakes his head and takes his hands off her, the ones that had been gripping her waist. He coughs politely, not wanting her to think he… he… 

 

She climbs off him elegantly, pulling up her skirt enough for him to be able to see just a bit more of her leg but not enough to… 

 

“Next time then,” she winks at Patrick before shooting Peter a glare he responds to with a lift of his glass. 

 

Once she’s disappeared somewhere into the crowd, Patrick leans forward, forehead resting on the palms of his hands as he screws his eyes shut and… fuck.  _ Fuck _ . 

 

“You alright there, friend?” Patrick doesn’t respond, just presses his fingers into his eyes and wills his blood to flow back to his head.

  
“You need to visit the bathroom? I promise, you wouldn’t be the only one…” he shakes his head, determined to handle this, he has it under control, he… “Or just do it here. Nobody would notice, it’s dark back here. You’re under a table. Again, you wouldn’t be the only one.” Patrick shoots Peter a glare, one that gets lost in the darkness between them, unlike Peter’s devilish grin. Patrick’s hand snakes below the table before he can think about what he’s doing, flicking open the button and unzipping his fly, the pressure almost too much even through the fabric of his trousers. Peter is still staring at him, that fucking grin plastered onto his face, as Patrick pushes his hand into his shorts and wraps it around his dick. He strokes it lazily, enjoying the light tingling it brings him, teasing his thumb over the tip every other stroke as he tries to keep his face neutral, eyes locked with Peter’s. He’s nodding, egging him on, whispering unspoken words in his ear like a devil on his shoulder as he picks up speed, awkward angle making his arm cramp, but he won’t stop as his free hand curls to a fist, nails pressing crescent moons into his palm. Patrick bites his lip as the tingling builds, as his breathing picks up and he can barely keep his hips still. And then, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, it overcomes him, his lips arch into a silent  _ O _ as his balls tighten and he lets go, releasing all over his hand, his trousers, the underside of the table…

 

Patrick leans back, unable to draw a proper breath as his eyes skit around the room, looking, searching, almost certain to find a second pair staring right back at him, judging him for what he’s just done. The only ones are Peter’s and they’re not judging, they’re… almost proud. Patrick feels his chest swell again. Peter hands him a handkerchief, enough to clean up the worst of the mess he’s made. The shame would kick in any minute, he was sure of it. 

 

“Better?”

 

“Yeah…” Peter is grinning again. Does he ever stop? Is it his default expression? Big, white, toothy? Patrick finds himself smiling in response and he feels good. 

 

The shame doesn’t come.

  
  
  
  
  


She’s there again when they go back. It’s the end of June, the days are getting hotter and hotter and Patrick takes longer and longer to make his deliveries, the afternoon sun slowing him to near a snail’s pace. And turning him into a puddle of his own sweat. Still, Peter always meets him with a wad of cash in the evening, gradually increasing his pay. Patrick has asked why, why he keeps paying more and more and more but Peter just shrugs it off like its nothing. 

 

The evenings are still cool, though, and Patrick now keeps a change of clothes in his messenger bag throughout the day, not wanting to go to their speakeasy smelling like a sewer rat. Not that anybody would notice but, well, it just wouldn’t make him feel good. They settle in the same corner they did the last two times, Patrick almost certain he’s now stained the table so much nobody else would want to sit there. The corners of his mouth twitch into a little smirk at the memory. 

 

Peter orders the same drinks, they watch the same show and when Patrick turns to ask him if he should pay this time, Peter just dismisses him. “It’s fine, my friend, I know the owner. On the house, as it were.” Patrick smiles and tips back the rest of the sour liquid. “You don’t think I’d pay for this horse piss, do you?” Patrick looks down into his now empty glass and sneers at it.

 

“Ah, hang on, let’s get you some more…”

 

“No, Peter, I’s fine, really, I’m-”

 

“Pete, please.” Patrick smiles, almost shyly, at him. He’s not gonna lie, pete suits him a lot better. “My friends all call me Pete, Trick. Peter is what my mother calls me.” Why Pete always manages to make his chest swell with pride, Patrick doesn’t know. He’s about to respond when they’re interrupted, an interruption he’s not too mad about. Pete leans back and winks at him as Missy drops down into his lap again and Patrick would be lying if he said he wasn’t taken aback by the kiss. She’s grinning at him, cheeky glint to her eye, lipstick smudged and he blinks back wordlessly, not prepared for… well, he’d not exactly… oh, oh what was… he…

 

“Have fun!” Pete calls after them as she laces their fingers and leads him away.

 

Patrick is trembling by the time she locks the door behind them. The room isn’t big and it isn’t very light, the colours matching those of the club beyond the heavy, wooden door, shadows looming in the corners, hiding anything,  _ anyone _ that might be hid there and Patrick can’t help but think of…

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of her voice, soft and gentle and filled with caring, the same caring reflected in her hazel eyes and stroking against his cheek with smooth fingertips. Patrick closes his eyes and leans into them, turning his head so he can place a gentle kiss to Missy’s palm. She smells so nice.

 

“You’re really quite exquisite, you know?” He’s not lying. Here, in the half-quiet of the little room somewhere behind the stage, she almost looks like somebody to love, soft, feminine features, beautiful eyes, luscious, red lips… Patrick lets his gaze wander lower, over her collarbones, the expanse of milky white skin swelling over her corset, her waist, tied in by lace and bone, thighs decorated with dark lace. He let his fingertips dig into the soft flesh below, eyes still trailing along her body, drinking her in because she was… exquisite. And he couldn’t deny that. 

 

“Kiss me.” Her voice was little more than a breath of warm wind against his cheek. He head was tipped back when he looked up at her face, her eyes heavily lidded, her lips parted. He couldn’t resist, he was only human and a  man at that. 

 

The kiss was far from sweet and tender, even if it started out that way, a chaste brush against soft skin, barely enough to sense, barely there, barely anything as Patrick tested the calm waters. Calm for now. They’d always been calm initially and he’d learned not to trust the low tide.

 

Her nails were sharp, digging into his skin like a cat’s claws, pushing past hurdles he couldn’t take, holding his hand and guiding him over, securing the landing until his fingers wrapped around the silk bow on her back and pulled it open, the soft material floating over his skin. He reached behind her, gently, oh, so gently, loosening the corset until he knew it would fall the the ground if he took a step back. 

 

Hot breath sticks to his skin, spreading through his whole body right down to the tingle in his fingertips, lips inches apart and noses a hair’s breadth away from touching. He’s taller than her. He’s never taller than anybody, but she has to look up to him, hazel eyes catching the dim lamp light and burning like fire and Patrick wonders if it’s turning his baby blues into hot embers or if it barely reflects in them. All he can hear is breathing. All he can feel is her. 

 

He takes half a step back, the black corset falling loosely to the ground, punctuating its impact with a dull  _ thump _ against the wooden boards. Patrick doesn’t look at it, he doesn’t even glance down to the garment by his feet, drunk on the sight of naked, white skin, perfectly porcelain pale, not a single crack in its surface. He could almost scream when she takes a step towards him, spoiling the view by moving her eyes back into his line of vision. Her hands are on his chest, gently putting pressure on it, like she’s trying to move him, trying to get him to do what she wants. Patrick takes a careful step backwards, faintly remembering the jacket that must be lying discarded on the floor behind him somewhere. He doesn’t want to ruin it, does he? 

Her fingers are on the buttons of his collar when the backs of his knees bump against the bed she was pushing him towards and she tries her utmost to fumble them open with her long, red nails as he leans in to reclaim her lips. It’s messy, sloppy, desperate, almost careless if he didn’t care so much. She only manages to unfasten the top two before he gets impatient, before her nails dig into his skin once too often, before Patrick decides enough blood has now re-routed to his cock for things to move on and he hooks a hand behind her thigh, her hot, bare thigh, and hitches it around his waist because, fuck, he can, and she wants to, she  _ wants him _ and Patrick knows she does. His fingers find their way between her legs almost of their own accord, not waiting for his instructions, too impatient to let him figure out what to do because he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he doesn’t! But it’s working. He thumbs over her, again and again, he’s not sure why, but she seems to like it, keeps letting half-choked moans slip past her blood red lips as he presses and rubs against that spot that makes her squirm and buck into his touch, makes her wet, makes her so, so easy. 

 

“P-Patrick”, she chants, almost like a prayer, “please,” again and again and again, “please.” He’s not sure what she’s begging for, can’t fathom the words to ask, to demand, his head far behind his body, his body pushing forward before his brain can catch up because it will, Patrick’s sure of it, it will catch up and he’ll push her away and run. His body is on his side. His mind is not. Or maybe it’s the other way around?

 

Before he can overthink things and fuck it up, he turns them around, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of her leg, probably bruising his fingerprints onto her thighs. He’s careful to lay her down softly, second hand slipping from between her legs to behind her back until it’s trapped between satin skin and satin sheets. His hands were all but trembling when they moved to unbutton his trousers, the ones constricting him in frankly the most uncomfortable way. Missy fucking  _ whines  _ when he finally gets his hand in them and manages - if barely - to pull his cock out. Patrick would be lying if he said it didn’t make him buck his hips and rut against her desperately. 

 

She’s still chanting, alternating between his name and please that sound like a prayer. Patrick knows this bit, he knows how this works and he suspects just about every human on the planet might know. Her legs hitch up, knees hooked behind his back as he holds himself in one hand, the other steadying him over her, and pushes forward. She’s so wet, so willing, it’s not hard, no resistance, no struggle, he just slides home, he just fits. 

 

His hand remains between her legs, rubbing against her because it elicits those wonderful noises from her, the high-pitched moans and sudden squeals he’s not sure what to make of, if they’re words or sentences or nothing. It doesn’t matter, not here, not now, not when she’s warm and wet and so,  _ so _ willing and all Patrick can think about is the shudder that runs through his body at every thrust, the pure, unfiltered pleasure that shoots through him, that takes over, driving him harder, faster, deeper, until he can hear himself grunting as he crashes into her, rough and wild until she’s crying out, claws digging into his back, she’s tense and shaking and so very, very,  _ very _ tight all of a sudden and then that’s it, he’s tipped over the edge into a pool of white, blinding bliss that tears through him and shoots out of him, ripping a stifled, shuddered moan from his throat in the process. 

 

When he comes to, she’s lying next to him, on her back, staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily and he can’t help but reach out and brush a lock of hair out of her face. 

 

“Your lipstick is smeared”, he mutters quietly, like that’s all that matters, like that’s all that happened in the last 15 minutes. She turns her head and meets his eye and smiles at him, wide and gleaming and Patrick smiles back because it’s the only thing he can do and she says, almost as quietly as him.

  
“Well, it was worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my, my, Patrick, you naughty boy...
> 
> kudos and comments would be appreciated, my tumblr is scmi-sweet


	4. Last Chance To Lose Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umh............................................................................................................................................ hi
> 
> yes, yes, I know, I know, it's been,,, a while i have been busy, okay? Don't give me grief I have a lot to do. Anyway. Have some porn.  
> Pls kudos and comment or come harass me on tumblr i need validation and this fic is a bitch to write thanks.

It’s too fucking early when the door to Patrick’s room creaks open. He tries to hide from the light by pulling his duvet over the head and nestling into his pillow, creating a cave around himself. He’s not quite sure how he got here if he’s honest, the last thing he remembers is staring at the bottom of a glass and after that everything is… a bit of a blur. It had been somebody’s birthday or… or maybe an anniversary? They were celebrating something. Probably. He’d had a good reason at the time! 

 

He refuses to open his eyes until he has no other choice, sledgehammer smashing into his skull at a beat-a-second rhythm and he’s somewhat hoping his mom came to bring him the biggest jug of water she could find in their new kitchen. 

 

She didn’t. 

 

“Patrick, honey, it’s 2p.m. Are you thinking of getting up some time today? Don’t you have work?” Patrick growled into his pillow. Yeah, he has work, but he’s 90% certain his boss is too plastered to be up himself right now.

 

Socked feet pad across the squeaky floorboards of his childhood room, steeped in gloom, the one he still sleeps in at the age of 25. Twenty-fucking-five and still living with his mother. What would Missy say if she knew, he wonders, would she still suck his cock so willingly? 

 

He perks up a little when a warm, sweet smell drifts to his nose and goes so far as to let one eye peek out from inside his fortress to carefully examine the tray in his mom’s hands. It’s the little light wooden one with the pink flowers painted on it he got her for her birthday a couple of years ago, the special one she only rarely uses. He can smell rather than see the coffee in the mug, the croissant next to it golden brown and fresh-looking and making his mouth water like Pavlov’s dog. It doesn’t take him long to decide this is worth sitting up for, even if his heavy, sore limbs protest. He ignores his mother’s sigh as she places the tray in his lap, revealing her own sweet strawberry jam balanced on the side of the plate. Patrick doesn’t hesitate to tear the croissant - beautiful, soft, fluffy - and cover it in red. 

 

“When did you get home?” He shrugs, mainly because he genuinely doesn’t know, partly because he doesn’t want to have this conversation. He downs half his coffee in one go, the burning liquid clearing his head and bringing him back to the brink of humanity. He feels the intrusion into his personal space more and more with every drop of it.

 

“I barely see you anymore…” It takes him everything to restrain from rolling his eyes, this lecture now being one he gets practically once a week and it’s been going on for three months now. He’s tired. So, so tired. “You’re too skinny, you need more rest and proper food, you’re overworking yourself, sweet.”

 

“We have bills, mom,” The objection hits directly, sharply, leaving no room for discussion as far as he’s concerned. He wants her to leave, wants her to fuck off any leave him alone because all he does is work his backside off for her and all he gets in return is endless complaints and coddling. He is not a child.

 

“I know, but it’s no good paying them if you can’t ever make use of your life! You’re always working, all the time, I don’t even know what it is you do.”

 

“I told you, I’m a delivery boy, I work for like… I work for… for somebody who helps with parties and stuff. We’ve had this conversation, mom, at least six times, I’m tired, I don’t wanna fucking talk about it!” He wishes she didn’t exist, wishes her away from him, to the other side of New York or America or the world. It’s true, they’ve had this conversation a lot over the last three months, so often he’s all but sick of it because, damn it, he’s 25 and he doesn’t need his fucking mom watching over him! 

 

Not anymore.

 

“I just… Patrick, I don’t think it’s good for you! I don’t know you anymore, you’re always… always in such a bad mood, I-”

 

Patrick doesn’t think before he speaks anymore, there’s no need for that with Pete. He doesn’t need to step on eggshells around Pete, he doesn’t need to answer stupid questions or come up with dumb excuses, he tells it as it is, says it as it is and Pete just listens, he doesn’t even argue back, just nods silently or, if he doesn’t nod, he shrugs, at least. Pete doesn’t try to lecture him, try to make him somebody he isn’t, bother him every fucking second they’re together, baby him like he’s a five-year-old just because he made one fucking mistake three years ago that he won’t be forgiven for. 

 

Sometimes Patrick thinks he might be better off if he’d succeeded, if he had just died. 

 

Patrick isn’t aware of it, but he says it out loud. Patrick figures out he said it out loud when he hears stifled sobs spilling from his inconsolable mother, standing over him, reaching out, like she wants to coddle him,  _ protect him _ , like he  _ needs _ her protection, like he  _ needs _ anything from her, like she’s not the one depending on his money. The words won’t stop spilling out of him, unaccompanied by sorrow or tears like they usually would be, but burning rage and anger and fury that he was  _ denied _ all this, denied all his freedom, every movement clocked, documented, analyzed, the pitiful worry on her face when he came home five minutes late because he missed his train. 

 

What would her face be like if he just left? 

 

The tray clatters to the floor, the sound of it still ringing in his ears as he tugs on the nearest pair of trousers he can reach, buttons up his blue shirt, pulls on his overcoat, all whilst throwing anything he deems essential into his duffle bag, the black one she got him when he’d moved out. He should have stayed out.

 

Patrick shoves past her, shoulder first to make sure she can’t stop him and thunders down the stairs, only stopping to slip into his shoes standing by the door. Tunnel vision set in and everything that isn’t the way out turns faded and blurry, unimportant because nothing matters,  _ nothing _ , except getting out, if he gets to Pete, it will be fine, he’s sure,  _ certain _ , he’ll find sanctuary with Pete and by God, he’d rather be with him than his mother who does nothing but live off the money he earned whilst she keeps him locked away in his room, away from his friends, away from anybody who isn’t her, like she owns him, like his life is her decision to make, he just needs to get to Pete. 

 

The door closes with a quiet click, no louder than a strong gust of wind, not with a bang, but a whimper. Patrick hadn’t taken a key.

  
  
  


His heart is hammering in time with his fist against the hardwood of Pete’s front door. The realization hits that if Pete doesn’t take him in, he won’t have anywhere to go, this is his only option, he’ll have to run back to his mother, tail between his legs and ears drooping and he can’t do that, he just can’t. 

 

"Why do you still live with her?" Patrick looks up from the steaming cup of tea. White china, decorated with a blue print. Probably worth a fortune. The confusion must be  etched into the lines on his face because Pete doesn’t need a question to give him the answer.

 

"If your mom makes you so unhappy, if she... gives you cabin fever, then why do you live with her?" He's dressed all in black - black trousers, black shoes, black button-down, black ringing his eyes. It looks good. It suits him.

 

"I... it's just, it's easier. Y'know... the house is ours and... and I don't have to worry about a rent or anything." He glances around the room he's never seen in daylight, tall brick walls decorated with grandiose paintings that seem so out-of-place among the mismatched furniture and clutter scattered throughout the house, speaking of money Patrick has since learned Pete must have, even if he doesn't blatantly show it off. He turns back to sipping the piping hot tea. Camomile. That's what was in the pantry. He suspects if he wanted a beer, the choice would be larger.

 

"Why are you worried about something as unimportant as rent?" Right now, Patrick isn't quite certain how seriously he can actually take Pete in instances like this. He throws him a doubtful look, one that hopefully conveys  _ some of us have somewhat normal lives where we need to pay for things we want _ , but he actually looks like his question was a deadly serious one. "Look, just... I have a few... more important jobs that need doing," okay, yeah he's deadly serious about this, Patrick can tell, his expression sincere, his brow knitted. Patrick raises an eyebrow.

 

"They really are... quite delicate and, well, if you fancy making a bit more dough..." Patrick isn't sure what delicate means, more to the point, he isn't sure into how much trouble delicate is gonna get him if he fucks up and handles it not-so-delicately. Whether with Pete or the cops. Oh, he is no longer under any misconception that this work is legal, it can't possibly be. He's seen the people these guys hang out with, seen the company they keep, the way they treat anybody on the outside. He just keeps his head down and doesn't ask too many questions, hoping nobody will notice the kid carrying parcels around town.

 

He considers it for a moment, china tea cup balanced carefully on his knee so ripples in the liquid’s surface catch the light shining in from the high windows, stretching almost all the way from floor to ceiling, framed by a set of rich, crimson curtains that speak of the wealth he could be sharing. Pete's relaxed in his armchair, picking at a thread with well-kept fingernails, like he doesn't care what Patrick says either way, the only thing giving him away that glint in his eyes, so much younger than he seems to be himself. how old is he? 25? 30? 35? It's hard to tell between the fringe, the eyeliner and a blinding smile. Patrick sighs, the weight of the proposition heavy on his shoulders because it's not just Pete, parcels and a wad of cash at the end of the day, this is a new life, the offer of a new start, the chance to get away. He thinks about his mother, how well she's looked after him these past years, when he was just the fat kid with bags under his eyes and shadows hollowing out plump cheeks. the way she'd hold him after a nightmare, soothe him, make him feel safe and never rejected him.

 

He thinks  of Greta, her blonde hair, her blue eyes, so full of fire and kindness and the way she'd always spare a minute for him, how she'd always give him a chance and always be kind. Until he killed her. Driven by a madness that lost him everything, the few friends he had, his job and almost his life.

 

And then he thinks of those last few months, the ones since everything became okay, the way she wouldn't stop pushing him, bothering him, although he was doing everything he could to make it better again, all he ever wanted to do was make it better! Hadn't he always been her good boy? Why didn't she fucking trust him enough to just... let him do this?! To fix things, to get them back on track?

 

Patrick knows why, deep down, he's always known.

 

Pete's looking at him expectantly and he realizes he's been pondering the question far too long when he's already made his mind up, when he knows that, between his overbearing mother, who wants to protect and coddle him so he'll always stay her docile little pet, and Pete, who's done nothing but respect him, praise him and reward him, help him, be a real fucking friend, there is no competition.

 

"How much more cash?"

  
  
  
  


Patrick has grown to love the Dryad like it’s his home. The smell of expensive perfume clouds his mind as he passes through the heavy, red curtains he always enters but never leaves through. He’s not quite sure what this place actually looks like, not sure he wants to know, the lights just bright enough for him to be able to see where he’s stepping, but not quite what he’s stepping on. He slumps down in his spot, the one he marked in the most personal of ways, unsure whether it was ever wiped clean of his seed or if it was left to stain other men who dared to settle there. There’s a show on, five girls, beautiful, tall girls with legs he could only dream of being between, make-up hiding their true face as they lift their skirts for the enjoyment of the men at the front tables. Patrick watches them carefully, catching every waver of emotion and every tremor of their bodies, whiskey glass cold in his left hand and liquor burning the back of his throat and the pit of his stomach. He has to pay when he’s alone, which is annoying, but he can afford it now. Pete makes sure of that.

 

“Hey there, sailor.” Patrick is torn away from the scene by the press of familiar lips to his and he feels himself leaning into the kiss before he even has the chance to give it any thought. “Not seen you in a while.” Patrick smirks at Missy, her red lipstick smeared, matching the kohl around her eyes. She’s not wearing much, then again, she never is.

 

“Had some important jobs to do, I had no time.” She pouts, beautifully fake and just what she knows he wants.

 

“No time for me?” Patrick shakes his head and he lets his hands glide down her waist and over her tiny skirt.

 

“Sorry, cherry, work’s work. You know how much Pete relies on us.” She shrugs, golden locks bouncing with the motion, but Patrick’s eyes are fixed on the swell of her breasts over her corset. He can feel the air getting hot and sticky around them.

 

She leans in, kissing him again, dirty this time, all teeth and tongue, before breaking away and pulling him close, her long, slender fingers stroking and curling through his hair as he finds heaven pressed against her tits.

 

“Let me fuck you”, he says to them rather than her, unsure of whether she even heard him from where his breathy words were muffled into her skin. His question is answered with a tug at his hair, pulling his face away from Missy’s soft flesh until his neck is curved backwards, on display for her to sink her teeth in and tear his throat out. She feigns shock, eyes wide and mouth forming the perfect O he recognizes from when crimson lips are wrapped around his throbbing cock.

 

“Is that a way to speak to a lady?” A smirk, somewhere between filthy and nasty, paints Patrick’s face.

 

“You’re not a lady, Missy.” She slaps him. He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it, couldn’t deny the rush of blood from his head heading south, but it does sting like a bitch.

 

“What am I, if not a lady?” She’s playing along. Good, he likes that, wants her to play this game. Makes it so much more exciting and all she has to do is act like she doesn’t want this as much as him, hasn’t missed feeling him inside of her, buried deep, finding and uncovering every secret her body could possibly hold, until she screams and writhes around him, until they both find that moment of release they’re chasing. Like she doesn’t enjoy being fucked rough and filled up.

 

Patrick tugs forward against her grip on his hair, it burns, would bring a tear to his eye if he cared enough for that, but he needs to be close to her, needs to feel her against his face. He rests his face against her neck, just below her ear, gently biting marks along milk white skin, before whispering:

 

“You’re my whore.”

 

It’s dark by the time he gets back. Of course it is, it’s half past two in the morning, he shouldn’t be out on the streets anywhere at this time, let alone in this end of New York. He met with the man – not a buyer, surprisingly, it was what Patrick had been expecting, seeing as until just now, it had been the only kind of person he had had to deal with – down in Queens, a hop and a jump away from home, the comfort of his own bed tauntingly close, before being made to cart himself and the not-so-inconspicuous crate all the way back to the North of the city. When he moves out, he’ll find something nearer to Pete, he thinks to himself as he pushes his bike through the dark and abandoned streets, constantly on high alert, vigilant in case of cops or drunkards. His cargo is precious, he knows that, he just handed over a fucking weighty envelope of crisp bills. Unless Pete, the fuck, was having him on for some kind of joke, whatever he’s currently transporting must be worth more than a month’s wages. All the better for him, he supposes, with the promise of his own stack of cash waiting back at the house.

 

Pete greets him with a blinding smile that only grows at the sight of the little bottles strapped to Patrick’s bike. Patrick hands over the one he’s reaching out for, dark glass filled with a seemingly clear liquid he couldn’t identify if he tried. Not that he has, he doesn’t care much, really. Patrick figures – with this job – the fewer questions asked, the better.

 

“You absolute beauty!” He’s not sure whether Pete is talking to him or the liquid he’s staring at like it’s the love of his life, but he’ll take the praise if he gets it, he supposes.

 

“Thanks…” Pete doesn’t object. Admittedly, that may be because he’s already stalking back off into the house, door left open behind him and crate still neatly sitting on the back of Patrick’s bike, so he takes that as his cue to follow him down the dark and dusty corridor. How long since he first walked down it? Patrick’s not sure, he can’t remember how many months have passed since he started working here. 

 

He follows the dim outline that is Pete - must be Pete, rather, because he couldn't for the life of him identify a person - his arms aching with the heavy weight of the crate he desperately just wants to put down before passing out on the nearest somewhat horizontal surface. He bites back curses as Pete leads him up the stairs, the wood banging into his thigh on every step, sure to leave a nice, long bruise across it. He's never been on the top floor, honestly, he's sort of disappointed that the experience of it is being ruined by his arms screaming at him to dump and run, but he grits his teeth through it and hopes to god Pete isn't going to be heading for the room at the end of the long hallway, thin and dark, not elaborately decorated like the one downstairs is, no windows in it that could at least illuminate it during the daytime, just the black abyss and not much more. Charming, really.

 

Pete stops - unsurprisingly - with his hand on the doorknob of the room at the other end of the long, thin, dark hallway. Patrick can barely make him out, no, scratch that, he can't see shit except a faint silhouette.

 

"I got you a- oh, man, you..." he cuts off the end of the sentence with a little chuckle and Patrick knows that, somehow, this dude must have the vision of a fucking cat and has just turned around to spot him standing there like a fucking idiot still carrying his cargo, "you, uh... really didn't need to bring that up here... I... should maybe have said something..." He hops Pete can't see colour with his cat-eyes because he can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. Nonetheless, he's  at least somewhat grateful as he dumps the crate on the floor with a loud clatter. Awkward.

 

"I got you a present," Pete continues, "for, y'know... doing so well. You're one of my most reliable, Patrick, I just felt it's time to thank you." His ears prick up at the sound of that. Okay, okay, he knows he shouldn't really accept presents from his boss, especially since he knows what kind of presents his boss deems appropriate, but he can't help but feel a little excited. That's the thing with Pete, you never know what you're in for. It's a wild ride, with never a boring moment because who knows what's on the other side of that door? Patrick's lip catches between his teeth, the bitter tang of blood pooling on his tongue. His eyes are as wide as a kid's at Christmas when the lock of the door clicks and it swings open just a crack, enough to let light pour into the hallway, highlighting pearly white teeth beaming at him through the twilight. Pete picks up the crate with one hand like it's nothing before giving Patrick's shoulder a squeeze. He's not sure whether he imagines the 'enjoy' he hears muttered in his ear, but when he turns around to thank him, Pete's already disappeared. Curious. A Man of the shadows.

 

Patrick paces toward the source of the light, it's warm and rich like fire, well, what else would it be? It could only be the gas lighting that runs throughout the house, a statement of the grandiose it must have boasted when it had been built. Patrick wonders what it had been like back then, glorious, rich, light and inviting? Whatever it was, whatever it had been... Patrick does not much want to imagine it in any other state than the blacked out familiarity it offers to him now. It shrouds him and his friends and colleagues in an infinite night, hidden away from the weak, the feeble, the normal, the good and gentle, too afraid to live their lives. This is their place, protecting them. He pushes open the door.

 

They're beautiful, both of them. Of course they are, what else would they be? Magnificent works of art, sculpted by god himself. Or maybe the devil. Wasn't it a woman that lost them paradise? By god, if that was the price for temptation, Patrick is glad it was paid. One is pale, alabaster white, skin that almost matches his own, whilst the other is dark as ship's wood, glossed and beautiful in her elegance. He walks over to them, lounging on the bed childishly, their loose dresses hanging off their shoulders, though they act like they are unaware of their breasts pooling out of them. He's almost certain they are both taller than him, though that doesn't matter much. Most women he's had are. The dark one stands as he approaches, her long, slender legs not covered by the ruffled fabric that serves no apparent purpose. Patrick dedicates his attention to her, brushing a curl out of her face and tucking it behind her ear, just so he can stare into near-black eyes.

 

"What's your name?" He doesn't care and likely never will. She knows this. She laughs, a cute, fake little laugh.

 

"Whatever you want it to be, darlin'" her accent is southern and Patrick finds himself wondering how she ended up here, a black girl whoring herself out in New York. It's not exactly a wild guess. 

 

Her hand is firm on his chest, pushing him back determinedly so he has no choice but to take steps back until the backs of his knees collide with the wooden frame of the queen-sized bed. Patrick raises an eyebrow at her. She's determined, she wants this. It's no secret he wants her, the outline of his blood-heavy cock pressing against the blue jeans he pulled on this morning. 

 

He sits down, leaning back until his back is against he mattress. He can see the other girl from here, she looks more shy and he's not sure if that's her act or her age, though, if he was being honest, he's not sure he could tell that, either. Her hair is something between blonde and brown, depending on how it catches the light. He reaches out for her and brushes along the hemline of her skirt, pushing it up ever so gently, exposing more and more of her body. He only looks down when he feels the other one climb on top of him, her legs either side of his body, straddling him, trapping him, in a way, he can barely move with the way she sits on his lower stomach, just above his denim-clad cock.

 

Her dexterous fingers begin working open the buttons of his shirt, exposing a copper-dusted chest, so different to the one he had way back when... They wanted him now. They all want him. And he revels in it. The more he could fuck... the more... the...

 

He pulls the pale girl over so he can see her better, her arms covering her tits as though they'd do anything to stop him, but she's smiling now, a fucking dangerous smile. Patrick knows how he could make her unravel with little more than a clever finger or two, would have her screaming and writhing beneath him by the end of the night and then again in the morning if he wanted.

 

His heart hammers in his chest, loud and clear, so much so he's certain it will burst at any moment, as the dark girl's fingers undo his fly. They usually gasp when his cock springs free, their act broken by the full, throbbing length of it. He understands it's big. He'd be lying if he said he didn't take pride in that.

 

She doesn't. She barely looks at it, instead leans forward as her hand wraps around the base as she holds his gaze so intensely he feels like he's being taken apart beneath her. His hands move to her waist as she starts stroking, too dry, too fucking dry, and his face scrunches up with the friction of it, the uncomfortable friction.

 

"You-" A finger pressed to his lips silences him immediately and Patrick thinks his heart rate picks up, against all odds and any healthy rate. Her free hand grasps his right wrist and tugs at it, lifting it up, up, over his head, pinning it down so he can't possibly move.

 

"You're going to listen," she says, voice a low hum, "you're not in control here", the pale girl shuffles around the bed until she's next to her, both of them towering over him, "not tonight. Tonight it's our turn." He doesn't understand the cues they give each other, the silent language they seem to speak as the pale girl shuffles over and takes her spot on top of him, straddling his body just in front of the dark girl. She's not wearing anything beneath her dress, he can feel the dampness already pooling on his belly.

 

"May here," the dark girl whispers to him, "she's never done this before. You see, it was supposed to just be me but... well, she was so desperate to try and frankly, there are stories about you... she begged me to let her come with me tonight. Are you going to make it good for her, Patrick?" He gulps heavily, every word of her tale shooting through his body, poisoning his bloodstream until he’s lightheaded and dizzy. "Will you make her want it more?" He isn’t sure if he can do anything but nod, obedience coming easily with two beautiful girls sitting on him. 

 

The dark girl gets off him, never letting go of his wrist, instead taking the other one and holding that above him, too. His attempt at struggle is weak, almost pathetic, he knows, but doesn’t care as much as he probably should, Pinned down by two girls. Nobody will ever know, this is his and his alone.

 

"Touch him," the dark girl says and it takes Patrick a moment to realize she doesn't mean him, "touch him, make him want it." May - if that is her name - drops her arms from in front of her and Patrick's fingers twitch, wanting to reach, wanting to touch those breasts, desperate to stroke them, play with them, take pink nipples between his teeth and lick them when they turn hard.

 

She holds him down as May shuffles back, wrapping her fist around his cock and stroking a few times, too loose, too dry to actually feel good but enough for it to be nothing but pure torture and he can't stop the whine before it tumbles from his ruined lips. His hips buck, he can’t help it, he fucking needs more and they aren't giving it to him, it's all he can do, almost a reflex, but he regrets it the second his head is whipped around and a burning sensation shoots through his face. He gapes up at her, eyes stern, plump lips pursed, ready to hit him again if he dares to misbehave. He can see down her dress from this angle, see her tits hanging freely, he desperately wants to touch, it's an urge deep inside he needs to comply to, like an itch.

 

"Aah! Fuck! Fuck!" he calls out when he feels his cock suddenly surrounded by a gloriously wet heat. May turned around, is bent over now, facing away from him so her naked arse is all on display, just for him, he is sure of it. He can see her pussy between her legs, just the hint of it glistening and he wants to taste it. Will she let him? He is supposed to make the girl feel good, after all and-

 

He's pinned down forcefully, the grip on his arms growing tighter when he tries to lean forward and he glares at the dark woman pinning him down, her dress now sliding off her body and she can't stop it because she'd have to let go of him for that. He stares her down, thinking maybe she'll back away if he holds her gaze long enough, be the compliant bitch he's sure she was taught to be. He's the weaker one, trapped between two beautiful lips, a tongue lazily lapping at his head every once in a while until he feels the muscles in his thighs tighten and the first beads of sweat pearl on his brow.

 

"Stop", Patrick wants to cry when her voice cuts through the fuzz in his brain why can't she just let him fucking have this?! "Not yet." He forces his hips not to follow the warmth of May's mouth, for fear of more pain, but he mourns the loss of it nonetheless. She turns back around, climbing out of her dress in the process and Patrick wants nothing more than to touch her, fuck, she's flawless, skin like virgin snow, untouched, not a scar or bruise anywhere in sight, not like so many of the whores he knows. She leans forward, hands on his chest, her long nails snagging the hair on it, making him wince as she claws along his body, mouth hanging open, her full lower lip asking to be bit until it’s crimson red.

 

"Here's the deal", his eyes flick back up to her, towering over him half-naked now, "the better I feel, the more May will give you. The better I feel, the better you feel, understood?" Patrick doesn't understand, he doesn't understand a word, isn't quite sure what she is getting at, but he nods anyway because that can only be the right answer, because that's probably the response that will get his cock wet. May shuffles back down his body, her cheeks and little nose flushed when his dick presses into her back.

 

And then, suddenly, she disappears from his view, blocked out by dark thighs that could probably crush his skull if they wanted to and somehow Patrick doesn't doubt they will if he doesn't do as he's told. He opens his mouth obediently, waiting for the taste of nickel on his tongue, it was familiar, at least and h-

 

"Oh! Ah, fuck! God!" Patrick is completely thrown off by May suddenly, unexpectedly sinking down on him, a firm grip around his shaft and a steady hold that tells him that this clearly fucking isn't the first time she's doing this but it doesn't fucking matter as she sinks down inch by tormenting inch. He can't help but let his hands fly to her waist and egg her on, push her further, because this is fucking torture and he needs her to just fuck him properly.

 

"Ah, no!" He whines out loud and high when May sits back up, leaving him out in the cold, "our rules, Patrick. Ours. You know what you're here for. Do it." The tears feel like they're seconds away, from the mere pain that is flaring in his cock, harder than he thinks he has ever felt it, already leaking, white oozing out and running down him and he wishes, fucking wishes, he could just come here and now.

 

There it is, the taste of pennies flooding his mouth, his lips part and Patrick starts lazily sucking at her, only half-conscious at this point. She starts moving against him, rubbing over his face as he starts bringing his tongue into it, hands splayed out by his side because he's not sure whether he's allowed to use them.

 

"Shhh, steady", she instructs when May sinks back down onto him and he starts panting like a fucking dog in heat. He doesn't know what he's allowed to do, how he's allowed to move or breathe or which noises he can make when. A hand finds its way into his hair, curling into it and pulling, hard, to guide him and Patrick does what he fucking knows he must be at least good at, sucking and licking over her clit, teasing at her cunt every once in a while, for good measure. Whatever it is... it has to be working at least somewhat because May starts whining, tightening around him and he doesn't think she'd allow that if he weren't doing well. He's approaching that point again, the one where he won't be able to hold on and honestly, he doesn't intend to, this is hell, sweet, blissful hell.

 

"Am I doing well?" He finds himself asking, no, begging, "am I... am-" She tugs harder, driving him back to her wet pussy, back to what he's supposed to be doing, not asking fucking dumb questions.

 

"Don't you worry, Patrick", her voice is breathy and strained, "you're doing just fine. I might even let you come." A whine falls out of his throat, a desperate plea for her to give him his reward, he'd earned it, he deserves it!

 

"I- I'm gonna..." Patrick glances down at May, keeping up a steady pace rocking on his cock, her nails sinking into the bed sheets either side of him. She's mewling, high and desperate, and he watches best he can as his dick disappears and reappears between her legs and the thought alone of being inside of her could be enough to make him come.

 

"I know, honey, I... you can, let go." Patrick's vision goes blurry as he watches May's mouth fall open, her steady rhythm against him stutters and she cries out as her cunt clenches around him, just as he feels a sudden rush of damp hit his lips and he knows he's done well, he knows he can come, he lets his mind slip, lets himself lose grip on reality, that beautiful tingling feeling that has been building in his stomach shooting through his entire body, driving heat through his cock and right to his head and just before his vision abandons him he glances back down at May, over her shoulder and then, as that ecstasy high hits him, turning him crazy and throwing reality off its axis as he comes, pearly.white and-

 

"Pete?!"

 

It takes Patrick some time to come around, caught in a daze that renders him incapable of much more than repeating the last word on his lips over and over and over again.  _ Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete _ . When he eventually manages to open his eyes and look around, all he does is see. He sees May lying by his waist, utterly spent, fucked raw, the telling trickle of Patrick's come between her legs. He sees her standing beside his head, already pulling her dress back on so those beautiful thighs are hidden from sight once again. He sees the red canopy of the bed, towering over him like a sky of blood and he'd find the comfort of it odd if he were capable of thinking that much. He lets his eyes wander over the cream coloured walls, bare save the gas lights beside the closet and the door, the heavy, wooden wardrobe, one door cracked open and letting the shadows spill over it, the almost ornamental chair that matches the red bed sheets and Pete sitting in it, book and pen in his lap, nose buried in his work, the big, boastful bookshelf th-

  
  


Wait.

  
  


Pete?!

  
  


Patrick sits up so quickly he nearly blacks out again, the room sways for a minute as he grabs onto the sheets to steady himself. Pete barely glances up from what he's doing, but Patrick nonetheless scrabbles for the nearest pillow he promptly shoves between his legs, hiding himself from the intruder.

 

"Pete, what the  _ fuck _ ?! What do you think you're doing in here?!" Pete raises his eyebrows but doesn't let his gaze follow, still reading the book in his lap, occasionally making marks in it.

 

"This is my room, man." Patrick can't do much but stare at him in exasperation, lost on how to explain to him that that's not a reason to just let himself in and watch as his friend is getting fucked. She walks over to Pete, stroking over his hair once and something within Patrick pulls uncomfortably.

 

"Anything I can do for you, darlin'?" Pete finally looks up from his book, pressing his lips to her palm before smiling up at her brightly.

 

"Thank you, Crystal, that'll be all." Crystal nods, motioning to May to follow her, who throws Patrick one last, shy glance before gathering herself up and they both shuffle out of the room together, leaving Patrick and Pete alone in the uncomfortable silence. He can't even get dressed, that would require him taking the pillow off himself and he's not sure how he feels about Pete seeing. He'd rather avoid it, he thinks.

 

"Does it bother you?" Patrick frowns at him, of course it fucking bothers him, what kind of a question is that? "That I was in here? Does it bother you?" Patrick wants to say yes, it's fucking weird, you don't watch your friends having sex and Pete's a guy, he's a dude, he doesn't want another dude in the room! It's disgusting! 

 

Patrick wants to nod. All he can do is shake his head.

 

Pete's eyes are glowing golden in the light as he stands up, fringe hanging low in his face, his mouth hanging open slightly, the way it does when he isn't trying. Patrick sits still as he walks towards him, grip on the pillow tightening for lack of anything else to do. Pete holds on to the bedpost as he leans in, too close for comfort, except it isn't and Patrick's breath catches. Golden eyes examine him carefully, taking him apart piece by piece as he's deconstructed beneath Pete's stare. There's a fluttering in his chest, like fear but not that, as Pete tilts his head curiously, like there's something he can't figure out, something confusing him and all Patrick can hear is his own breathing, all he can smell is Pete.

 

The rushing of blood in his ears is almost unbearable when their lips connect, barely, not even a kiss, really, just Pete muzzling against him more than anything, like he's testing the waters, like he just wants a taste of Patrick, but it's enough. Enough for it to matter. His expression as he leans away again is unreadable, puzzling Patrick, he can always at least guess what Pete is thinking, even when it's nothing, but now... it's everything and nothing all at once and Patrick wants to ask but all words evade him. Pete doesn't say a thing, just silently turns and leaves. Like he was never there to begin with.

  
  
  
  


He avoids his mother best he can. It was humiliating enough for him to have to come shuffling back over her threshold after he'd made it quite clear he would only set foot in that house if his dead body was dragged into it, but Pete convinced him. Of course, who else? It makes sense, really, if he keeps cutting good deals, if he keeps managing to trade prices down, if he continues getting Pete's goods without getting caught and bringing back a bonus sum he manages to keep stashed in his inside pocket, then he'll keep getting more and more money and the more money he gets, the sooner he can afford a new place. Why live on the streets when he's less than one-hundred bucks away from an apartment? Pete pays well. in the last six weeks of him working like this, he's made almost as much money as he did in half a year back at the grocery store. He'll be out soon. He doesn't have to sit here and put up with being coddled like a child for much longer.

 

He sneaks in in the early morning and sneaks back out the second he's awake, usually at about 1pm, he doesn't speak with her, eat with her, even see her. As far as he knows, he's alone in this house. Which is precisely why, one night late in October, when he wakes up to see a shadow in the corner of his room, he screams. Or, rather, he sits bolt-upright, scrabbling against the wall in the hope it will give and let him fall out of the room, cold sweat breaking out and covering him in seconds as he draws breath in preparation to scream, because it can't be,  _ it can't be _ !

 

"Steady, tiger, it's only me." Pete's lighthearted chuckle works like a miracle and Patrick asks himself why he was detained, tortured and cut to pieces when all it takes is Pete's voice to make him okay again. He peels himself away from the wall he was trying to break through and wipes the sweat off his brow with the corner of his duvet before looking toward him again. Of course it's Pete, how could he not recognize him? How could he possibly think...

  
  


"Sorry, I just... you made me jump, is all." He tries to ignore the way his cheeks burn with embarrassment and is suddenly grateful for the lack of light that had frightened him so seconds before.

 

"Fancy helping me out with something?" Pete asks casually as Patrick pulls on the nearest pair of trousers, not having a clue which ones they are. He hopes they're not the ones he poured tomato sauce all over yesterday.

 

"Depends what it is..." Patrick scuttles around the room in search of a shirt because, honestly, his mind was made up the second he realized it was Pete who'd somehow broken into his house. Actually, he should ask him about that, no knowing whether the next person would have similarly harmless reasons for doing so.

 

"Now, now Patrick", Pete replies just as he tugs a worn-out white t-shirt over his head, "I think you'll rather enjoy it."

  
  
  
  


New York at night is pretty. He didn't used to think so, used to be intimidated by the unsavory characters hanging around parks and below bridges, felt uncomfortable when the street was empty, wouldn't like the sounds the city has to offer. Frankly, Patrick is starting to wonder if the person he remembers from the past has anything to do with him at all, or if he was just a fever dream.

 

He follows Pete through one dark alley after the next, convinced this is definitely the long way round and he's being dragged along for the sake of dramatic effect. He wouldn't put it past Pete who wears fucking make-up for dramatic effect, the idiot. After what Patrick is certain can't be more than two or three blocks but feels like much more thanks to the constant diversions that are basically retracing steps in parallel roads, Pete comes to a sudden halt in front of a pretty worse-for-wear looking door. Patrick watches him carefully as he knocks on it determinedly, his utter conviction even noticeable in the fucking knock.

  
  


He throws Patrick an almost cheeky grin and winks at him over his shoulder and, not sure whether he's allowed to speak or not, Patrick does his best to look confused. In a sort of casual not-too-dumb way. He doesn't want to be the idiot although he does sometimes feel it. Before he can make sense of the situation though, the door opens into a... well, a rather well-lit little back room, revealing a short, tubby little man who looks quite nervous. Pete beams, first at Patrick, then at the man, and they both step inside, brushing past him as he shrinks away and lets them through.

  
  
  
  


"You might have told me we were walking straight into a drugs bust, dude!" Patrick tries to articulate as best he can with his head tilted back and a handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose. "Jesus Christ, are you sure it isn't broken?"

 

"Certain." He only half-believes him. "I wouldn't exactly have gone myself if I'd known that was what we were  waltzing into, would I?" Patrick snorts, not bothered enough to articulate an actual sentence with words and grammar. Pete got away with nothing more than a bit of a scratch, it was Patrick who decided to launch himself at the cop and promptly got an elbow smacked right into his face.

 

Patrick is faintly aware of Pete getting up somewhere at the edge of his peripheral vision and the next thing he feels is a hand at the back of his head, carefully tipping it back further. He takes the bloody hanky and tosses it somewhere out of sight, instead producing what Patrick presumes must be his own, hopefully freshly washed. Pete's gentle as he dabs it around Patrick's nostrils, making sure to wipe away the blood before he presses it back against his nose.

 

"You're quite the runner," he comments, "didn't think you'd be out of there quite so quickly." Patrick shrugs. In all honesty, until about half an hour ago, he hadn't known he was quite such a good runner, either. Pete smiles, "you should have seen your face though, when you punched that cop, it was absolute fuckin' gold, dude." Despite himself, Patrick can't help but grin back at him, only being able to imagine how it must have looked as he stood there, wide-eyes and red-knuckled.

 

"Better luck next time, eh?" Patrick's brows shoot towards his hairline as he stares Pete right in the face.

 

"No dude, no fucking way, don't you dare ask me to do that again, you literally just showed up at the guy's doorstep and started beating him up I'm pretty sure that can only end in trouble." Pete shrugs.

 

"He wouldn't pay up! I feel it's pretty much my right to take what he owes me, he had enough time to hand over the money." Silence falls between them. Patrick isn't sure what to say to that, he has a point, really, the money was his to take but it landed them right in the fucking shit this time. He wonders how high the risk of that happening is and whether maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't give it another go.

 

"Next time I'll just send you alone," Pete murmurs as he starts dabbing at Patrick's nose again. It hurts a bit less now, thankfully. "You seem to be rather good at the whole negotiating thing. Maybe you can talk your way out of jail time."

 

Patrick snorts which, aside from sending blood flying everywhere, hurts like a motherfucker and he really regrets going for the cop like a bat out of hell.

 

"You're a dick", he sniffles nasally, but Pete just laughs and before he knows it, he's laughing along himself. His nose may be broken but at least he's having fun. Sort of.

 

"Patrick, Patrick, you're an odd one," he sighs, tucking his hank away, "good job I like you this much." Patrick beams at him. Pete smiles back.

 

"They're waiting for you upstairs, go on, before I end up paying for even more unused time." 

  
  
  
  


Pete's house, the Dryad, his own house, the order of places Patrick feels the safest in.  Pete's with him this time, following him in his best suit and tailcoat, matching Patrick's down to every detail but the colour, his being a royal blue whilst Patrick is in an emerald green to go with the masks on their faces. It's invites only, Patrick doesn't know how Pete always ends up on the top of every guest list but he's grateful for it, he's  grateful for being selected as the one to tag along. He hasn't seen any of his colleagues for weeks, not even Gabe, who'd often accompany them at first. He doesn’t expect to see them at work, obviously, they're all out and about. Then again, not exactly like Pete's big on throwing company parties. No, Pete's the sort who invited people to other parties. Easier for him.   
  
The place looks the same as ever, except for all the hidden faces Patrick recognizes anyway. He wonders if, in the past, in regal Venice, they truly served a purpose or were merely and excuse for people to fuck whomever they want without consequence. In his case, it doesn't take him long until he has the first girl hanging off him, hair like fire, skin like porcelain, so fragile he could shatter it in an instant if he wanted, she'd let him, he's sure. He could sink his teeth into her and tear her apart and she'd beg him for more. 

 

Her lips are blood red and eager, wrapped around his cock before he could even think about stopping her. He wouldn't. He has no reason to. Patrick comes quickly with nothing more than a sigh and leaves her behind on her knees, in and out of the dark corner in a few minutes with not much motivation to look back. Pete is lounging against the bar, his black hair gelled back, sleek and elegant, the top half of his face concealed by the mask so dark it could be mistaken as black. Patrick hates the twist in his gut when he spots the blonde he's talking to, fingers barely brushing her arm, but enough to be flirtatious. He's never seen Pete with a girl before. Of course, he must... he must have girls, there is no way he doesn't, not with the way he speaks to them, the way he wraps them around his little finger, but Patrick's never seen him with one.   
  
Pete's seen him. Every time Patrick fucks his whores, every time he does a job well, every time he's rewarded for doing a good job with a willing cunt or three, Pete's there, sat working, usually, sometimes he watches, sometimes he doesn't and Patrick has learnt to ignore it. There's a certain thrill in it, even. Look at me, look at what I can do, I have all these women, what do you  have? Yes, he's proud of it.   
  
"Patrick!" Pete beams at him from beneath his mask, "I was wondering where you'd got to!" Patrick considers the girl. She's not what he'd usually go for, too fake, too painted, too... slutty.   
  
"This is Candice. She's new here, come down from Boston. I thought you might wanna get to know each other?" Patrick looks over to Pete, holds his gaze. His eyes are painted black, as usual, but more so, all the way underneath the mask, obscuring his face just that bit more. There's something commanding in Pete's eyes, maybe determined, he's not sure, but he knows Candice is for him. Pete slips away as he turns to her.   
  
Before Patrick can even think of something to say, she's touching him, her hand on his thigh, brushing along his leg, up towards his stomach, ghosting just past his crotch. He can feel his dick give an interested little twitch. She's not his type. But she'll do.   
  
"Wanna get out of here?" She murmurs to him. Her mask is white, sparkling red streaking the edges and fanning over the forehead, an equally red feather towering over her head. Patrick nods.   
  
Candice takes his hand, leading him through the back of the Dryad he'd come to know so well from all his nights with Missy. He wonders if she's here today. She must be, right? Somewhere in one of these rooms, maybe.   
  
He's pushed into one, a large one, bigger than the one's he's been in so far, the dark wallpaper already peeling off, the bed less a bed and more just a mattress in the middle of the room, too large to fit into any frame. Patrick's pulse picks up.   
  
She places a hand on his chest, pushing him back until his back hits the wall, and lets it trail down the buttons of his shirt until she reaches his belt buckle. Patrick thanks every god he can think of for his youth and stamina as his dick begins to stir.   
  
She kisses him, Patrick uses her mouth to distract himself from the hand winding its way down his trousers, bites her lip and runs his tongue along it. However hard he tries, he can't prevent the jolt his body gives when her warm, smooth palm wraps around his cock, begins stroking lazily and Patrick bucks his hips in time to her fist. It feels good, that's the thing about sex and all that goes with it, it always feels at least good and if he wasn't quite so disapproving of all his rules about it, he'd thank God for giving him a dick that could make him feel the way he does right now., as she lets her thumb slide over the slit on his head. His eyes slide shut and he lets his head fall back against the wall, focussing everything he has on the heat collecting in his crotch, the way his cock is getting harder and harder in her hand. Candice works him over, again and again, wetting her hand with her own tongue whenever the dryness makes him wince. but god, is it lovely.   
  
Patrick's mouth falls open in time with the door, his impending orgasm disturbed by the sudden appearance of...   
  
"Sapphire and Cherry", Candice identifies the two girls that just slipped into the room. Patrick's not sure which is which, whether Cherry is the one with the charcoal black hair and the blue eyes or the one with the massive tits and- Actually, what the fuck does it matter?   
  
  
"Would you like us on the bed, sir?" Patrick nods, not really sure where else he'd want them. On the dresser, against the wall, on the floor, anywhere would do, really. which one would he start with? More importantly, which one would he finish off with? Will he unmask them?   
  
As he watches them climb onto the mattress, asses up, all on display through their revealing clothes that seem to serve no purpose other than to turn on every man that is doomed to pass by them, he doesn't think he will. Candice's hand is back around his cock, her grip loose, her palm wet, as the one with the dark hair and the silver mask climbs on top of the girl in red. Cherry, presumably. It would make sense. Patrick's back arches as her corset is unlaced, Sapphire's elegant fingers undoing the bow at the top, then slowly, slowly, slowly pulling apart the two halves where they connect at the front of her body. Her breasts bulge over the edge of it, restricted by whale bone and cotton and Patrick wants it out of the way, want to lick and suck and bury himself in her completely.   
  
The door opens again and this time, Patrick is much inclined to tear into the disturbance, fuck this is a private fucking room and he's...   
  
Missy. His smirk grows when he recognizes her, even beneath the gold mask, he doesn't think there's a play he wouldn't know her. She is his. She says he is hers, too, but they're empty words he lets her say because they make her cower back to him time and time again. She is beautiful and she is good at what she does, the best, in fact, and she's smart, knows what to say, when to say it, how to say it, will stay after he's finished, lie on the bed, sharing his cigarette, pouring whiskey down his throat until he passes out. He never remembers what they talk about. It's enough to keep her coming back to him.   
  
Even now.   
  
"Hey, sweetheart,” her words are sugary candy, her tone is warm rum as she walks over to him. Candice steps back without hesitation, joining Sapphire and Cherry on the bed, both girls undressing each other, kissing, rubbing their bodies together and Patrick wants to stare but his eyes are caught on the golden masked girl in front of him. She kisses him, so much deeper than anybody has in so long, like she wants him, she really, really wants him and not just his money. Pete's money.   
  
"I brought a friend, he said you wouldn't mind." Patrick doesn't spare him so much as a glance, instead takes Missy's wrist and leads her over to where the other girls are already waiting. He's had two before, three, once, never four. His heart is a heavy beat and a light flutter at the same time, making him lightheaded - or is that the alcohol?   
  
He kneels in front of Missy, his trousers and underwear lost somewhere along the way, cock raging hot and angry red in front of her as she smiles sweetly up at him. Candice is at her side immediately, doe-eyes staring up at him.   
  
"Suck it", he mutters, though he doesn't need to, she's on him before he can finish getting the words past his lips, her own wrapped around him, the familiarity of it almost beautiful were it not so dull. Patrick winds his fingers in her hair, holds her head still as he begins thrusting, fucking into her open, willing mouth, down her throat, the spluttering, gagging sounds she makes nothing but fuel.   
  
She wants him to fuck her, he knows, he can tell from the way she's already rocking against the sheets, she must be so turned on, her swollen, wet cunt ready and waiting, but no. He pulls out of her mouth, staring at Sapphire and Cherry. They're naked now, beautiful, flawless skin, smooth and curved like a woman's, fuck, sculpted by the gods themselves. Sapphire is eating her out, her head between open, willing legs, mouth pressed to a glistening cunt as Cherry makes the most obscene noises. 

 

Patrick turns his attention to the other two, both kneeling up, Candice behind, her hand between Missy's legs, her fingers circling her in the exact fucking way Patrick knows she likes it. He pants heavily, his heart, his lungs, his cock, his body too overwhelmed as he looks from one pair to the other and back, not sure who he's addressing when he begs somebody to suck his cock, desperate, so, so, so desperate he could cry, taunted by the girls around him, beautiful, perfect girls, none of them with him, not one paying him the attention he needs, dark figures in dim lighting, just out of reach, not even Missy willing to sit on his dick, the room is spinning with lack of oxygen and Patrick thinks he might well pass out if he-   
  
"Shh, I've got you, I've got you." Patrick's mind twists and turns and makes a million somersaults until it finds a face to match the voice and when it does, his blood freezes.   
  
"I-" Pete's arms wrap around him from behind, his chest is as bare as Patrick's - when did he lose his jacket and shirt? - hot and alive, a steady heartbeat that isn't his own thumping against his back. He relaxes almost out of reflex at the feeling of Pete's body, at the sound of Pete's voice, at the comfort of  _ Pete _ .   
  
Patrick stiffens, his own body goes rigid at the sensation of a hand curling itself around his cock. It's not soft, the fingers aren't slender, they're rough, the skin is worn and torn and the grip is strong and determined and not at all what Patrick knows.   
  
"Pete..." Patrick tries to pull away, but framed by Pete's body behind and his arm in front, he finds it impossible.   
  
"Pete, Pete no, it's... this is wrong..." a man! Pete's a man! Men do not lie together, the mere thought of it is disgusting, horrible, the humiliation of being sodomised and-   
  
"Is it?" His voice is calm, it's always so calm, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, the winter winds on Christmas eve, soothing and reassuring. "How does it feel, Patrick? Does it feel good?" His mouth drops open and he wants to say no because that's the right thing, that's what he's supposed to say, he isn't supposed to enjoy this, it shouldn't feel nice.   
  
"Yes." Pete picks up pace, his arms pulling Patrick closer.   
  
"Then how can it be wrong?" He gulps heavily, something nagging at the corner of his consciousness, something unfamiliar, something... something that's always been there but... it's like he's just discovered it, like a permanent itch he's just learned to scratch.   
  
"You want this," Pete's voice is barely a whisper, "I want this... how is this any more wrong than what they are doing?" Patrick looks down at the girls laid out before him, a mess of mouths and fingers and hair, saliva and sweat glistening on every one of them and he lets himself relax at the right of them.   
  
"That's it,” his mind sparks fireworks at the praise, "shh, let me take care of you."   
  
Patrick finds himself being flipped onto his back, between the girls, lost in the pile of bodies, but Pete sill finds him. Patrick scrabbles to hold onto something, his grip on reality, as Pete kisses along his stomach, beneath his belly button, above his cock and he shivers and shudders at the sensation of chapped lips against his sensitive skin. Patrick's mind clouds over at he's taken in. Pete doesn't tease like the girls do, doesn't waste time trying to prove a point, he sinks down in one, long swipe and Patrick can tell Pete knows, he knows what feels good, he knows all those sweet spots, those tips and tricks that invoke bliss. Soon, Patrick is squirming beneath him, the only thing anchoring him is the feeling of Pete's nails carving into his skin, nowhere near deep enough to draw blood, but enough for it to hurt, just a bit, just... just right.   
  
He's not sure which of the girls he starts kissing, it might be two of them... maybe three or even all, they're all over him, all over his body like starving lionesses, taking their turn as Pete silently commands them. Patrick whines loudly as he sucks him down, all the way down, no apparent gag reflex to stop him, nothing to ruin this. His fingers curl in Pete's hair, finding the ribbon that ties the mask to Pete's face, keeps it secure, keeps him hidden. What does Pete see when he looks up? Does Patrick look as desirable in his mask? Does he look as dark, as mysterious, as menacing and almost grotesquely enticing? There is a glint in Pete's eye, something only he seems to see, that golden glow that only shines when the light is low and lust is high. Lust? Or sin?   
  
Patrick cries out, whether it's a plea or a name, he is not sure just that it tears through him at a blinding rate as he spills his load, shivering and shaking throughout his whole body until every last drop of him is spent, until all he can do is lie on that mattress, the glow of sex and alcohol washing over him  in the silence provided by the ringing in his ears and the thundering of his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would b rad my tumblr is scmi_sweet


	5. You May Be A Sinner But Your Innocence Is Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So umh
> 
> thanks for sticking around
> 
> especially SnitchesAndTalkers because I've been an absolute fucking nightmare and she's put up with me thanks ily
> 
> enjoy
> 
>  
> 
> or don't

Patrick's blood is boiling with rage eternal, his knuckles white where they're clasped around the handle, this time for real, this time he means it, this time there's no turning back. He storms down the streets he knows so well, the streets he calls home, the shadows of crumbling tower blocks that offer nothing but comfort and security and safety in their darkness. He stalks through them, staying close to walls because he can't risk being spotted, can't leave his back uncovered. He curses the way his bike squeaks and squeals and tried to assess how many months buying a new one would set him back by. He's not far off now. He doesn't have much longer to go. If it's the streets for him, it won't be for long.  He's sure he can leave at least his possessions with Pete, at least.

He's already waiting on the doorstep when Patrick gets there, his silhouette making him jump, it's not like he expected him to be there. He must have just seen someone off, sent them out into the night with a bundle of cash or maybe a little package containing god knows what. Or maybe he just got back from one of his escapades, maybe with Gabe, maybe he'd just seen out the girls he'd been entertaining, a thought that made Patrick burn with more jealousy than he liked to admit.

 

"Patrick." He ties his bike up the way he always did, as though the simple chain would stop a thief. Then again, it's so loud he was sure he'd hear if somebody tried to take it, telltale squeak of a rusty frame giving them away. Patrick keeps his head bowed as he approaches the stone steps leading up to the entrance, stopping in front of Pete, not looking him in the eye for fear of finding nothing but rejection. He's expecting a question, a demand for an explanation, why is he here in the middle of the night when he wasn't asked to be, why is he standing on his boss' doorstep with a full suitcase, why?

 

Pete doesn't say a word, silently reaches out for Patrick, his hand on his shoulder as he gently pulls him up the stairs and into his house. Patrick isn't used to the corridor being illuminated, this might be the first time he's seeing the dusty green wallpaper and the dark wood of the floor.

 

"Finally had the lighting fixed," Pete explains, as though he could read Patrick's mind, "took me a while, I know, but... it's more inviting now, don't you think? More of a home..." Patrick nods solemnly, still not daring to look up at Pete. It looked very... clean. He's not sure what exactly he was expecting, but it wasn't polished floorboards and speckless walls. There's ornate portraits hung along the length of it, noble looking men and women that bear a striking resemblance to Pete. The staircase it to his right, leading up to the persisting darkness of the floor above, to the left is the sitting room he's found himself in on many an occasion, drunken nights rounded off by slurred conversations held from heavily upholstered armchairs. Pete heads straight down the hallway, passing two stern-looking women on the way, a vase of half-wilted flowers and a painting of a hunt that looks eerily misplaced, though Patrick doesn't have the time to stand and stare and find what unsettles him about it as he's rushed past.

 

He's almost shocked to find black and white tiling under his feet, dark stone on the walls, cracked countertops and greasy cabinets. He frowns at Pete who's removing a spider from the stove, tiny, thin legs poking out from between his cupped hands.

 

"It's a mess, I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you quite yet." Patrick wants to shrug it off and say something along the lines of "it's fine, don't worry about it", but he can't seem to wrap his head around the right words.

 

"Anyway, uh... kitchen... in case that... wasn't obvious just... just feel free to use it whenever, it's fine, take the food, it's... in the pantry over there, it's... okay, so umh," Pete gestures to a door at the opposite end to where they came in, "washing happens through there. Just dump your dirty laundry in there, it'll be clean again. At some point. Okay, moving on..." he seems nervous, almost fidgety and Patrick can't help the feeling of dread that settles in his gut. His grip on his brown leather suitcase tightens.

 

"Bathroom's through there," Pete points to a door next to the stairs, one that Patrick hasn't noticed before now and he wonders to himself how many times he's blindly walked past it. He follows Pete up the stairs, each step creaking below his feet and he begins to question if they've always been this long.

 

"So, these are just a load of empty bedrooms... take your pick. Any is fine. Oh, except that one, that's Gabe's. And that's the upstairs bathroom. I mean you can sleep in it if you like but I can't imagine it being too comfortable for you if I'm honest. Uh... well, you know my room, no need to show you that." He comes to a halt just outside of it and finally turns to look at Patrick. Their eyes meet for the first time that day and Patrick's baffled by the nervousness in Pete's. Pete is never nervous.

 

"Why... are you doing this?" He asks carefully, for fear of insulting him. Pete sighs heavily, his breath echoing off the bare walls of the upstairs.

 

"I mean, I knew you'd come. Just a matter of time. I'm hardly gonna throw you out on the street, am I? You can stay here until you have the money to find somewhere else." Patrick stands, frozen on the spot, the pity in Pete's face sparking something between rage and gratitude within him. He's not sure where to look as they stand there in the hallway, unspeaking like two idiots in the gloom of low lighting that hasn't been fixed yet, it would seem. 

 

Pete's awkwardly bouncing from one foot to the other, like he can't wait to get out and leave. Would he leave? Would he really leave Patrick alone in this house? He walks over to the room next to Pete's, the doorknob stiff and hard to turn, but it clicks in the lock and Patrick can push it open. The room beyond is simple, nothing more than a double bed and a dresser, blue curtains adding colour to the grey bleakness of it. The dust floats in the air, catching the light of the lamp Patrick turns on, indicating just how long this room must have been unused for. He sets down his suitcase and looks around at the sealed boxes standing in the corners and he asks himself if Pete even knows what's in them or if they're remnants of inhabitants long since moved on. 

 

"I'll let you unpack," Pete says from his spot in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his usual casual air returning. Patrick feels himself settle a bit. "I'll be downstairs when you're done, yeah?" He's disappeared before he even gets the chance to reply.

 

Patrick packs his stuff into the drawers, top one for shirts, middle one for trousers, bottom one for socks and underwear. He's not got everything with him, obviously. He's not sure how he'll get the rest, either, can't be faced with his screaming, sobbing, begging mess of a mother again. She'll have to try and find work now, serves her right for living off his back for all these years. Maybe he can sneak in when she's out earning money for once in her god damn life.

 

"Aargh! Shit!" As ice cold pain shoots through his head, he presses his palm to it and sits down on the squeaky bed. He's been getting these headaches recently, they started right behind his eye, have since moved to further back. His mother would tell him to see a doctor about it. Patrick doesn't trust doctors, not anymore. All they do is cut you open. His vision turns blinding white and he screws his eyes shut, trying to ward off the worst of it. They're never long, but unbearable. God knows, he'll crack his brain right out of its cage if he must.

 

He finds Pete in the kitchen, lounging against the island worktop in the centre, eating raisins out of a jar and staring into the middle distance, lost in thought until Patrick emerges. He smiles, that blinding Pete smile, and holds the jar out to him. Patrick feels the unease subside at the sight of him, his nervousness from before gone, back to the Pete he knows. Patrick reaches into it and takes out a handful, popping them into his mouth one by one.

 

"All settled?" Patrick nods.

 

"Look, I don't... wanna get in your way, Pete, so if y-" He waves his hand dismissively, cutting Patrick off mid-sentence.

 

"None of this. You're my guest. More than that, you're my friend. You can stay as long as you'd like." Patrick smiles gratefully, corners of his mouth tucked up against his cheeks and the way Pete's eyes flick to his lips doesn't pass him by. He knows what he wants, he's familiar with that look by now, nights spent with other people or just them tucked away beneath sheets, desperately grabbing and rubbing and tugging and grinding. Patrick would never have believed that fucking a man would be quite as exquisite as it is. Oh, but they must look so good together. Pete and his dark eyes, dark hair, dark ink etched into caramel skin and Patrick, white, white, so white and pale, blonde hair flopping over his face, his heavy cheekbones, his slim waist framed by Pete's strong legs. Part of him longs to see it.

 

Pete leans in and touches their lips together and it feels like home. They fit almost perfectly, Patrick sinks into it, his hand on Pete's waist and pulling him close, but he pulls away, that glint returning to his eye. Patrick raises his eyebrow at him, his expression reading nothing but mischief and he knows it because it's how he feels, the small smirk tucked onto his features all he needs to wrap Pete around his finger.

 

"Not here," he says, "one day, but not right now. Come on, upstairs." Patrick almost leaps up them, the creaks of the steps turning into cracking, seconds away from bringing the whole house down by the sound of things. Pete is by his side in seconds, his hand low on Patrick's back as he pushed him towards his own bedroom. He kisses him as they fall into it, fingers already unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a copper-dusted chest. The backs of Patrick's knees hit the bed and he lets himself fall into it, dragging Pete down with him, leaving his shirt behind. Patrick desperately tugs at his belt, tearing it out of the loops and tossing it aside before unbuttoning Pete's trousers and shoving his hand down them. Pete's breath catches as he wraps his hand around his already-hard cock, squeezing carefully, feeling the familiar weight of it between his fingers. Patrick breaks away from his lips, turning to kiss and bit along his jaw, his neck, his right hand steadily working over his dick as his left begins undoing Pete's shirt. He tenses as Pete's fingers brush over a pebbled, pink nipple, so sensitive it sends shivers through Patrick's body. He bucks up, starts grinding against him through the fabric of his own trousers, Pete's now around his knees as Patrick strokes his cock.

 

"O-oh, Oh God..." he breathes heavily when Pete finally gets a hand on his dick, returning the favour, but stroking with more determination, working him harder and faster and Patrick's back arches off the bed. Pete pulls away from him, getting up onto his knees and just staring down, taking Patrick apart with each gaze as he shuffles completely out of his clothes until he's naked as the day he was born.

 

"You're fucking beautiful," he murmurs as he lets himself drop back onto his hands, but further down, much further down, his nose at the height of Patrick's stomach as he kisses along that stripe of exposed skin between his belly button and his trousers that he's figured out makes Patrick absolutely mad. He whines and squirms beneath his iron grip, one step away from begging, he won't beg, he  _ will not _ . Patrick lifts his hips off the bed as Pete pulls his trousers over his ass, cock springing free and slapping against his belly, he shuffles out of them and kicks them aside, tugging at Pete's wrist to try and get him back up to him, but he instead bends over Patrick's dick, lets a bead of spit drip onto the tip of it. Patrick bites his lip and frowns down at Pete, a silent plea, as far as he'll go, and Pete - the fucking shit - grins back at him with that fucking glow in his eyes, that glint in his expression that makes Patrick weak at the knees. He sucks lazily at the tip of his cock, his tongue darting over the slit every once in a while, and every time, Patrick whines and mewls and is seconds away from begging.

 

And then, suddenly, he freezes, he shies away, his body pulling away from Pete almost automatically. He scrabbles for the bedpost, trying to steady himself as he stares down at Pete in pure horror. His fingers are slick and glistening with.. with something and Patrick spies the tub of Vaseline lying next to him. He swallows around the heavy lump in his throat and knows the fear in his eyes is apparent from the way Pete looks at him.

 

"It feels good, I promise." There's something reassuring in his voice, somewhere, there's this undertone but Patrick can't quite find it. He cowers at the edge of the bed, knees drawn close, concern mapped out on his features. He feels... worried?

 

"It'll hurt," he attempts quietly, Pete only smiles.

 

"It might sting a bit at first, but it'll feel nice. I promise, Patrick. Patrick?" He's not looking at Pete anymore, instead staring at his coated fingers. If... if he does this, if he likes it... fucking Pete, well, that's one thing. He's still a man for it. It doesn't change anything. Being fucked by Pete? Not so much. He sinks his teeth into his lip, the implications, the connotations, all of it too much.

 

"Patrick?"

 

"It's not you," he blurts out, out of nowhere, "it's not... if you were a woman, it would.. this would be fine, it's just... I dunno..." Patrick lets his face drop into the crook of his elbow, hiding his shame from his friend. He can feel embarrassment burn in his cheeks, tinting them red, dampening his brow. He can't. This is a step too far. He isn't a fucking faggot.

 

Calloused fingers lightly brush against his ankle and Patrick flinches before realizing it's Pete, soothing him, catching him before he falls, once again. He always catches him. Patrick raises his gaze, meeting honey gold eyes. How are they so calm? How are they so calm when he's so filled with doubt?

 

"I won't hurt you, I promise. And this won't change anything." Patrick eyes him, trying to filter out the lies, the long tales that ring utter bullshit, that Pete will run off and tell the world there's a queer in his bedroom. He slides back down the bed, legs straightening out, he lets Pete crawl between them and he lays his head back so he's staring at the red canopy he's become so familiar with. When Pete presses a finger against him this time, he barely winces, just swallows down his pride and stares up. He feels he owes him this.

 

If Pete wants his fun, let him have it.

 

It hurts alright. Patrick's whole body tenses as Pete slides in his heavily coated finger, fists curling into sheets as he grunts. He squirms around as he starts carefully moving it, slowly pumping and Patrick really, really doesn't understand which part of this, exactly, is supposed to f-

 

"Ooh, oh, fuck... fuck, do that again!" He stifles the moan at the back of his throat as Pete feathers against something deep inside of him again and again and again, and then his mouth sinks down over Patrick's cock and, yes, okay, he understands now. He starts rocking down, chasing Pete's touch, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his brow creased in a frown. The stinging returns as Pete slides in a second, pumping a few times, pressing against that spot before carefully scissoring them. Patrick hisses through his teeth, not sure if the burning is worth the payoff, and Pete slows down, kissing along his hip and he tries to focus on that rather than the feeling of fingers up his ass.

 

He's not sure when it tips over from pain to pleasure, he just knows that there comes a point where he's whining and moaning rather than hissing and gasping and in spite of himself, he begins to beg. He's begging for more, more more, he needs to feel it, he needs to be full.

 

Pete's mouth leaves his cock and something that could be nervousness, could be excitement, settles over Patrick as he clambers up the bed until he's hovering over him, face to face, noses touching. Patrick pulls up his knees and lifts his hips, offering himself up on a golden plate. It doesn't take much for Pete to slide in. And it hurts, it really does hurt. But more than that, it feels good. He's never felt this close to Pete, never felt this close to anybody, as they kiss, messily, spit-slicked, desperate, as Pete rocks inside of him, a tangle of bodies that feels like so much more than it should and it makes Patrick dizzy with lust. He wants more. He wants so much more. He presses their foreheads together and breathes in time, rocking down onto Pete's cock with every thrust and embracing every burning nerve. It's worth it. For this.

  
  
  
  


He gets more. He gets so much more. The jobs don't stop, long nights of standing on street corners, in back alleys, of knocking on doors to the unknown, usually an unsavory figure Patrick finds too reassuring because that's better than the cops. He knows New York like the back of his hand, not just his borough, the whole city, every winding little road, every gap in the houses, every dead end, every alley cat is his friend, every street lamp his enemy. He's thought about dyeing his hair. He figured black to hide it, but when he suggested it to Pete, he'd just replied with blonde. Bright blonde. Almost white.

 

After the cold and the dark, he comes home and Pete is always waiting. There's food, every time, but he always walks past it, intent on eating it later, but he never does, finding it the next morning instead, he'd always found cold beef preferable, anyway. There're always more people, upstairs, in Pete's bed, sometimes the floor if there's too many, sometimes - rarely - the Dryad on the special nights. He's started bringing him men now. Beautiful men, always short, always soft, never  big, tall, muscular. 

 

Beautiful men. None as beautiful as Pete. The only thing that feels better than fucking Pete is fucking a girl, it doesn't matter which one, whilst Pete fucks him. It's better when he's high, better when he has that opium buzz making everything feel surreal and warped and a thousand times better. He's not up for much when he's high, can barely move himself. But Pete, Pete... Pete.

 

Patrick grunts in time to his thrusts, doing his best to rock back, but unable to hold a rhythm without strong hands on his hips, guiding him on and on and on and keeping him steady. Patrick looks up and catches sight of himself in the mirror in front of them. He's not sure if Pete put it there deliberately or if this is a happy coincidence. They look so beautiful. He catches sight of Pete over his shoulder, brow furrowed, mouth hanging open as he fucks into him over and over and over again, crashing into his body like it's his to claim.

 

As far as Patrick's concerned, it is. 

 

They fit so well, perfectly complementary, not like the matching china in the glass cabinet by the fireplace, like pieces in a two-piece puzzle, different but right. And when Pete comes, claiming Patrick's body with one final, hard pull at his hips, Patrick comes with him, giving himself over completely, letting go and promising everything that is his to Pete. He lies in the hazy afterglow of it, his stomach sticks with his own come, the poppy toys with his mind like it owns it, twisting and morphing reality into everything it isn't, but Patrick drinks in the bliss of it as strong arms lift him and carry him through the room, laying him out on the soft satin sheets and tucking the side he's not on top over him so he's cocooned in them. He tries to reach out to Pete, thinks he kisses him, but he can't be sure of it. He lets the opium get its hold on him and slips into its heavy sleep.

  
  
  
  


There's always something around at Pete's. The opium, admittedly, is a rare treat he doesn't always get his hands on, but there's always alcohol at least. Pete reminds him, every time, says to be careful, go easy on it, he knows what it does to people, after all. Not to Patrick. Never to Patrick.

 

It's some time in late November when she finds him. There's a cold air outside, Patrick's back in his woolen coat, not yet wearing gloves but it can't be long now before the snow starts falling and he has to dig them back out. He's always liked winter. There's a calmness about it the rest of the year could only dream of offering. He always used to enjoy Christmas, especially, memories that don't feel like they are his spring to mind, of hot tea and warm food. He pushes them aside, hastily, the life of a man long since gone. He wonders if Pete celebrates Christmas. A small part of him hopes so, dreams of mulled wine and gingerbread by that fireplace.

 

He's lost in that thought when Gabe's head pokes around the frame, peering into the living room illuminated by nothing but the fire he just lit when he got in a few minutes ago.

 

"There's someone here for you. Said she's been waiting a while now? It's urgent, apparently... I mean, I told her to go away, but." Patrick frowns at him, jaw set like stone. The first and only person he thinks of is his mother. Who else would be here to see him? He doesn't get visitors. Unless this is one of Pete's things, unless Pete called somebody over for him, asked them around without him knowing.

 

"How old is she?" he asks to be sure. Gabe peers back towards the front door.

 

"Not very? Younger than you for sure." Not his mom then. He sets down his cup and peels himself out of the armchair, admittedly irritated by the distraction, but in honesty more intrigued by who it might be visiting him at this time.

 

He stops dead when he sees her.

 

Patrick hasn't felt fear, genuine fear, in months now. Hell, it must be nearing a year! Slight unsettlement, sure, doubt, yes, concern, also. Fear? Not one ounce of it, so much so he's forgotten what it feels like, so much so the ice cold shower of primeval panic comes as a shock to him.

 

But it is not misplaced.

 

He can't find the words for it, can't speak, his tongue lead-heavy in his mouth and his voice useless, incapable of making a sound, as though he'd swallowed it in fright. It's Missy, of course it is, it has to be, that's the only damn reasonable explanation of who he's seeing. This is Missy, outside of the Dryad, the way she really dresses, the way she really looks, no layers and layers of make-up and feathers and sequins and lust hiding her. Missy. That is all. Just Missy.

 

But then why does she look so much like Greta?

 

Patrick chokes at the realization of it, at the sight of a face long since forgotten and the name he puts with it, a name he'd forced out of his mind. Has she come to haunt him? Is it his turn, after what he'd done? Is she going to kill him, get her revenge? Patrick's mind is in overdrive, working at ridiculous speeds, getting hotter and hotter by the second.

 

His body is rigid and cold, his face stern and unmoving. Uncaring.

 

"Hello, Patrick." He has so many questions, so many of them sitting on the tip of his tongue, wants to yell them at her, yell them out then slam the door and run away, hide, cower in the corner of his room and never come out.

 

All he says is: "What the fuck are you doing here?" 

 

She stands there, in her floor-length, dark green dress and her ever so sensible hat, of course she's wearing gloves, why wouldn't she, and stared at him. Just stares like he's a fucking museum exhibit, the victim of taxidermy, dead on the inside.

 

"I've been looking for you," she comments, not harshly, shockingly, there's still that softness in her tone, that vulnerability he's fallen for time and time again.

 

"Who are you?" He fires back. He knows who she is. She can't be. He knows. He can't.

 

"You know who I am." Patrick shakes his head.

 

"Missy, why-"

 

"No!" Her interruption is harsh. It's unexpected, unfamiliar, makes Patrick recoil. She won't meet his eye anymore, stares at the wall of the house, blinking back tears as she continues, "not Missy, not now! I'm not a whore like this, Patrick, I am not. What about you? Are you still a gentleman?"

 

It takes him aback, he can't lie about it. The question throws him off his fear and launches him into anger. Anger he knows, anger is safe, anger is familiar. He glares at her, a look that could kill and this time he won't fail. But it doesn't deter her. How can it when she won't look, won't see? Her stare is fixed on the facade.

 

"You were so kind I... you were the sweetest man I knew, Patrick. I don't regret any of this." She looks up, finally, her eyes red, tears streaking her face. Patrick tries to find pity within him. "You look so different now!" she sniffs "all... all slim and handsome. You always were, you know, to me, anyway."

 

Something moves behind her, caught in the street light. Patrick glances over her shoulder at the cat chewing on its catch.

 

"Come with me." Her voice is determined now, she's gathered herself and remembered her reason for seeking him out. Not that he understands it. Patrick can do little else than snort at her request.

 

"Why?" Then comes the hesitation. She bites her lip, hard, he sees ruby red pearl from it and can almost read the answer in it. She's staring at the floor, head bowed so he cannot see her face, her shoulders sagging. She looks pitiful in the dark, out of place in her tattered clothes and shabby appearance... although, only against Pete's house. compared to the drunkards on the street, the near-crumbling houses behind her, well, she fits in quite well, really. He stares her down because there is nothing else he can do other than shut the door on her and he is too eager to hear her answer to be able to do that. He's not sure what gives her away, if it's the shame in the way she bows her head, if it's the sudden reality of her back in front of him when he thought he wouldn't ever see her again, she's been dancing around him for months, he cannot bear to think of how stupid he's been, if it's the hand resting on her belly. He doesn't need her answer to know.

 

He's not sure how he'd imagined it would feel. It feels sort of... numbing. An odd sense of relief washes over him, relief at the indifference he feels because he is. He is utterly indifferent towards the woman he once loved and the baby growing inside her.

 

"Get rid of it." The words roll off his tongue easily, of course they do, they're the only words he can say. She seems to think otherwise, eyes wide and tears as she stares at him in shock-horror, like he'd just suggested she murder her own mother. All he can do is sigh and tut and roll his eyes at her, the way she looks at him like he's the monster here.

 

"There are people," he explains slowly, "who have the means to get rid of it for you. Fuck, I'll... I'll fucking find you one, okay? Just... just get rid of it, please And I'd be grateful if you could keep it quiet." It's reasonable. They are not married. He has no interest in marrying. She would be disgraced for the rest of her life. The child would be... well, he dared to think! The only logical step was t-

 

"Please, Patrick, just... just come and live with us! We could have a little family, you told me you wanted that!" She is smiling. She's so sure of herself, so convinced this is the right thing and she knows what he wants, what he needs what's good for him. Patrick can only shake his head in disgust. He doesn't want that. Some fat, sad virgin from another life wanted that, thought the main goal of his existence was to have a job, come home, have a wife he could fuck once in a while, she'd spit out some kids for him, he'd work some more and on weekends they'd go for a picnic in central park! He doesn't fucking want that.

 

"I'm not that person," he snaps, "you fucking get rid of it. Don't speak to me again until you have, I don't want to see you."

 

He doesn't wait for her response, his fist already curling in anger, rage and fury. The door slams shut hard, loud, the sound echoing off the walls and ringing in his ears, joining the headache that has returned to his forehead, that searing sharp pain that cuts into his brain. He won't go to a doctor.

 

"Hey, what's the matter?" Patrick's fist loosens, his breathing calms down. He opens his eyes and realizes he can only see out of the left one, the right taken over by a blinding white. It'll pass, it always does, but it feels watery and swollen. Pete reaches out a hand and swipes his thumb over Patrick's cheekbone, his touch enough to make it all alright again. The dampness of the spilling tears is washed away, though the headache stays. He can push it aside, it's easy when he has Pete's lips against his and his hands cupping his face.

 

"Don't worry about it," he says, his voice the surface of a still lake on an autumn morning. Patrick leans into his touch. "She doesn't matter," he continues, brushing along Patrick's hairline with his fingertips, "nothing matters but us, right? Patrick?" Patrick nods, the dull throb that announces the end of the pain setting in. His vision re-focuses on the man in front of him, that familiar face wearing that familiar look of comfort and security, his fringe brushed over half of it, dark kohl around golden eyes. The outfit is new, Patrick notes, an almost comically high collar, sparkling black, belonging to a long coat of sorts. He wonders what theatre wardrobe he pulled that out of. A warm smile wraps itself around his heart and splits his face in two and he tilts his head to the side so he can press a kiss to Pete’s gloved palm.

 

"Nothing matters but us."

  
  
  
  
  


It won't leave him alone.

 

In the following weeks, Patrick does what Patrick does best: Nothing. He drags himself from point A to point B on his mental map of New York, lazily trading threatening words for late cash because that's his job now, that's how he fills his pockets. Pete says it's what he's best at, says he's better than all of them, his apathy mistaken for infinite patience that makes the clients uneasy or something like that. He's not sure. He doesn't care. He wanders from door to door, from bridge to bridge, from station to station, collecting the hard-earned cash of rich party planners and poor people scraping together their last coins for the next quick fix alike. He doesn't think much, delivers rehearsed speeches and occasional punches when he feels up to it, pockets wads of cash, sometimes a stack of neatly pressed bills, sometimes crumpled dollars found at the back of a bus.

 

He goes home in the early hours of the morning, when people start feeling brave enough to talk back, to refuse, embraced by Pete's touch, his kiss, his warmth. Sometimes they fuck, hot and hard, wherever they please, in Pete's bed, in Patrick's, on the stairs, on the couch, the kitchen countertops, the hallway floor, anywhere. Sometimes they curl up in front of a roaring fire, bodies tangled, fingers intertwined, two steady heartbeats matching each others pace, comfort settling in Patrick's stomach as a protective arm curls around him. Shields him. Keeps him safe. Sometimes they slope off to bed, share the sheets and the warmth, pressed close, wrapped around each other, Pete's breathing the soundtrack he needs to fall asleep to, more and more as time goes by. Were Patrick still the lovely, sweet, respectable guy who sells old women their groceries, he'd be scared, aware of how wholly fucked they'd both be if anybody found out.

 

He's not that. He doesn't care. Let them find out, let them talk. What does it matter to them? This is their little haven, hidden away from the world, just them. They're all that matters.

 

That's what he tells himself, late at night, when Pete's chest is steadily rising and falling below him, his ear pressed to it so he can hear the steady heartbeat, hoping it will tempt him into sleep.

 

He sees her. In the corner of the room where he knows Pete's odd cloak hangs, he sees a figure, a woman, long hair, fragile frame, slender arms cupping a swollen belly. He screws his eyes shut and knows if he doesn't look, she'll disappear. When he closes his eyes, he hears her pleas, hears her begging. 

  
  


He presses closer to Pete. He owes her nothing. Nothing at all.

  
  
  
  


Patrick isn't sure when he last saw the sunlight. October, maybe. That's a possibility. Long enough that when he awakens to the harsh glare of it through the red curtains that remind him it's Pete's bed they spent the night in this time, that searing pain returns to his head. He throws a pillow over his head, hoping it will suffocate him, let him slip away silently so he won't have to feel the sharp stab driving into his brain anymore. It's been getting worse, more persistent and he can't figure out what triggers it, it shoots through his whole body, setting his nerves ablaze and blinding him and he never feels more aware of how he's trapped in his own body than in those moments.

 

"Oh, gosh, sorry, I thought... hang on, okay, you can resurface, I've drawn the curtains." Patrick cautiously peeks out from behind the pillow he stuffed in his face. Pete's standing beside the bed, looking down on him apologetically. Does he ever take that black from around his eyes or has it become permanent, etched and stained into his skin the same way as the thorns around his neck and the bizarre markings on his arms? Patrick has wondered about them often, has meant to ask, but the moment has never been right.

 

He leans back against the pillow, arms wrapped around Pete's neck and dragging him down as they kiss, sweet, sleep-drunk slide of their tongues against each other enough to stir Patrick at least a little. But just as he's about to pull Pete further into him, make him roll on top and have his way, he feels him pull away. All Patrick can do is reach for him, pout securely on his face, lips twisted in an unspoken plea, but all Pete does is wink and wander towards the door.

 

"I've made breakfast," he announces cheerily, "proper breakfast, not yesterday's leftovers. Leave your pyjamas on, it's cute." With a last, cheeky smile, he pulls the door closed behind him.

 

Once he's rolled out of bed (after five minutes of adjusting to the land of the conscious and living) and slipped on the woolly socks he keeps in the drawer, he pads over to the window, curtains still drawn, and risks a glance outside. He'd been hoping for snow, it was Christmas day, after all, a little snow wouldn't go amiss. But all that meets his eye as he looks out is the shoddy brown brick of the houses surrounding them and the murky grey of the skies above. A sigh rattles through his body, the disappointment only dampened by the thought of waffles and pancakes and crisp bacon and Patrick really hopes Pete's gone all-in on this.

 

He's steered into the living room, socked feet barely touching the tile of the kitchen before a pair of hands grasps his shoulders and pushed him out. He leans into Pete's touch as he's directed back down the hall and into the armchair by the fire. There're stockings on the fireplace. A small smile toys at the corners of his mouth as he spots them.

 

Pete emerges shortly after, a tray filled with pretty much every breakfast food Patrick can fathom, making his eyes widen and his mouth water as it's placed in front of him. Pete slumps onto the sofa next to him, fingers already reaching for a golden croissant. Patrick mimics him, picking the second one out of the little bread basket, making sure to spread sufficient jam on it before taking the first bite. Crisp on the outside, fluffy within. Perfect.

 

They don't speak a word, just sit and eat in silence broken only by the clutter of cutlery and crockery and the sound of their breathing. Once they're done, Pete clears the tray away, returning from the kitchen with a small present under his arm. Patrick feels a little guilty, not having got him anything in return. Patrick blinks, eyes adjusting to the clear vision suddenly presented to him, sharpening the world around him into something almost unfamiliar. The heavy, black frames sit perfectly on his nose, tuck in behind his ear comfortably. Like they were molded around his head.

 

They fuck on the carpet, rug burn etching itself onto Patrick's back as he's dragged across it again and again and again, every nerve in his body searing hot and ready to explode and when they do, they end in a cataclysm, tearing him down into a fuzzy haze as he grapples for hold on Pete's back, his fingernails cutting in, pulling him closer, legs locked around him, because he's his, his and only  _ his _ .

 

He's not sure when the snow starts falling, only that it happens quickly, the dreary grey of the outside transformed into brilliant white in minutes. Patrick pulls his feet up onto the couch, hot chocolate clasped between his cold hands. He leans against Pete's shoulder, rising and falling in time with his breathing. He shuts his eyes and dreams of forever.

  
  
  
  


Winter is tough. Cold, bleak, wet, dark. Whilst the dark is Patrick's friend, he's not particularly fond of the other three. He likes the cold in autumn, when the winds are strong and comfort is to be found inside a thick coat, likes bleak when it's in novels, when the tragic ending is inevitable and all hope seems futile, enjoys the wet when it's pooling between his legs or in his mouth, always accompanied by a sensation of pleasure and security. He doesn't like them like this.

 

He stays inside as much as he can, his errands always short and sloppy. He's sure Pete would complain if he got too bad at what he does. So far, he seems satisfied with him. Patrick curls up on his chair in front of the fire like an old dog, cigarette between his lips, taking dull drags to pass the time he's forced to spend alone whilst Pete is out doing whatever it is he does. Patrick doesn't ask, knows when not to. He's raided the drinks cabinet, small bottles of illegal spirits hidden away, a tiny portion of the deliveries Pete gets saved away just for them. The whisky is making him lightheaded, so when he hears laughter from the hallway, he's not sure if he's imagining things.

 

He frowns towards the shut door, the dull echo of two men bleeding through the dark wood of it. Is it worth him getting up? Crawling out from beneath his blanket and braving the cold of the house away from the fireplace? In the end, it's boredom that makes him put down his glass and discard the warm blanket, trading it for the wintry chill. No, he's definitely not imagining things, the closer he gets to the door, the clearer the voices are becoming and the clearer the voices become, the more certain he is that one of them is Pete. He tears the door open, crosses his arms and leans against the frame as he looks upon the two men. Pete grins at him the second he spots him, a blip in Patrick's heartbeat, but Gabe... oh, Gabe looks like murder, glaring at him over Pete's shoulder. The one he's touching. Close, too close. Patrick feels himself bristling with jealousy.

 

"Where've you been?" He keeps his voice casual but curious, like it's an innocent question rather than an accusation.

 

"Out for drinks," Pete tells him, "just fancied a catch-up." Something pulls within Patrick, something defensive and painful. Is he not good enough? Why does Pete need  _ Gabe  _ when he has  _ him _ ? Is he not fucking enough?!

 

He smiles sweetly.

 

"Oh, right, I thought you were out working." He doesn't spare Gabe a second glance, just turns and drags himself back to his chair. Door open this time, so he can see them.

 

"Think I'll go to bed, man,"  _ yes, good, you go to bed. Don't come out of it.  _ He feels the press of Pete's lips to his temple, shuts his eyes and lets the warmth of them spread through him, calm him, soothe him. He takes Pete's hand, lets him lead him upstairs, into Patrick's bedroom tonight. Next to Gabe's. Good. Patrick hopes he hears every moan and cry and creak of the bed as he greedily sucks Pete's cock until they both pass out.

  
  
  
  


The clock downstairs is just striking three when he wakes up. Those days where he sleeps at night are bizarre, always interrupted by his own sense of time, thrown off by the nights he spends working. He's ready to slip back into his dreams and brush it off as another one of those occasions when he hears floorboards creaking outside his door. He sits up, Pete's arms dropping off his body and onto the mattress. His ears have become so much better over the last few months, always have been good to facilitate his eyesight, make up for how awful it is, but so, so much better since he started living in the dark.

 

There's a gun beside his bed, not paranoia so much as security. Pete's told him stories, people breaking in in the night, trying to get their money back, seeking vengeance or silence. He has a scar on his chest to prove it, Patrick's fingers have traced it so, so many times. He'll do what it takes to protect him.

 

The door creaks as it opens and Patrick silently curses it for ruining the stealth he's learned since joining Pete. Small, slim, agile, he can go anywhere, anywhere he likes. He stoops low, making himself even smaller as he sees Gabe pacing away, towards the stairs, not even attempting to remain quiet. There's no time to get changed, Patrick just pulls on the long, black winter coat hanging on the back of his door, slips into his shoes and follows him, keeping away from the walls because that's where the floor squeaks. He hears the front door shut and picks up pace, taking the stairs as quickly as he can without making too much noise.

 

The cold is harsh, tearing through his coat and pyjamas without a struggle. He shivers in the chill, but follows the footprints in the snow, leading East. South-East. The idiot didn't even cover his tracks. 

 

It doesn't take long to find him. Patrick's feet are wet in his shoes, socks sodden, fingers frozen stiff, his nose is turning blue from the wind whipping across his face, the open sea offering no cover from the wind as he plods through the thick snow along the shore. He finds Gabe by one of the boats, talking to a strange man. Patrick crouches behind a stack of crates, eyes fixed on them. Does money pass between them? Drugs? Was Gabe sent to do this? Is this a job? Why didn't Pete give it to him? He falls back into cover as Gabe starts walking towards him, the dark corner between the crates and a stack of barrels the perfect spot. Gabe walks right past him. Patrick's never given him much thought, he was always nice enough, just a guy who joined them at the speakeasy once in a while, nothing more. Looking at him now, he's tall and slender and handsome, face sharply chiselled, high cheekbones, clear-cut jaw and everything Patrick isn't. Does Pete still see the fat kid he hired all those months ago?

 

"Stay away from him," the words are out before he can stop them, hopefully lost in the wind, "you stay away. He's mine." Gabe stops dead, turns slowly, an ugly smirk on his face that Patrick wants to carve off his lips. The light of the streetlamp catches in the mist, turning into a funnel, a funnel of light interrupted only by the man standing in it. Like a stage set. Patrick half expects a perfectly rehearsed soliloquy.

 

"He's not yours," is all he says, "he's not yours or mine or anyone's. He's not even human. He's a shadow that lives in the corner of the room, that haunts people until they pay him what he's due. He's the Sandman and he doesn't belong. Just takes." Gabe takes a step towards him, out of the light so he's nothing but a faint figure.

 

"Go back to him, Patrick. Go back and live the life he's prepared for you, the way I'm living the one he's prepared for me and all the people yet to come will live the ones he'll prepare for them. I am not your enemy."

 

Patrick doesn't hear any of this, the wind in his ears muffling Gabe's words and twisting them into what he thinks they are. His legs tremble as he pushes himself up from the ground, taking shaking steps towards Gabe. He looks concerned, Patrick hopes to God it's for himself, not some misplaced pity. Patrick doesn't need pity, years and years worth of it stored up inside him, fueling his rage.

 

"You stay the fuck away from him," he growls, "he's mine, Gabe,  _ mine _ ! I've lost so much, you're not spoiling this for me!” He sees it, the fucking pity, recognizes it in an instant, so familiar to him and he wants to tear Gabe's face off. He swats away the hand he extends, ready to stroke his cheek or pat his head or whatever the fuck else he wants to do, just to make him feel inferior, like a child, like his fucking mother used to, like he's a helpless beetle rolling around on his back.

 

"I DON'T NEED YOUR PITY!" The words tear through him, carving him into pieces like a butcher's knife as tears of rage spill from his eyes, fury contorting his face and body and soul. "I DON'T FUCKING NEED ANY OF YOU! I AM NOT A CHILD!" Gabe takes a step forward, mouth open, ready to unleash more meaningless words upon him, more senseless drivel meant to throw him off, disorientate him, revert him back to what he was and he can't go back, he can't!

 

Patrick shoves him, hard, two hands square in his chest. Everything slows as he watches the look of horror on Gabe's face, as he reaches desperately for something to hold on to. There's nothing. Nothing to break his fall. Patrick watches helplessly as he topples over the edge, falling over the side of the dock into the gaping darkness below.

 

The there's silence.

 

Patrick's tears freeze to his face as the wind howls around him, replacing the sound of the blood that had been pumping in his ears moments before. He blinks into it, his mouth hanging open, his body frozen solid, refusing to move as he stares at where Gabe isn't. It takes every ounce of willpower he has to walk towards the edge and peer over it.

 

There he is. Lying there, twisted and broken on the stone of the boat ramp. Patrick feels numb as he looks at his unmoving face, his dead eyes.

 

He can't leave him there.

 

It doesn't take much to get him in the water. Patrick's gut churns as he heaves him off the ground, his skull shattered into pieces, not much left to the imagination. The lack of light is a blessing in more ways than one, it would seem. He fills Gabe's coat with pebbles from the shore, stuffing his clothes full of them before heaving him off dry land, into the blackness of the sea beyond. He doesn't look back, stumbles back onto the dock, hurries out of the light as fast as he can, into the alleys waiting for him, enclosing him in their safety and comfort.

 

Patrick falls through the snow, the cold of it turning his fingers blue as he topples over again and again and again. He knows it can't be far, knows he must be close to home, but where is it? Where is home? He can't hear anything but his own heartbeat. He leans against cold brick and drain pipes, dragging his body on because he has to, because if he doesn't, his mind will let go, catch up with him, he has to suppress it, bury it deep down, he has to get home, to Pete, if he gets to Pete, he'll be fine, it'll be fine, he'll be fine, he'll be fine.

 

"Patrick?" His eyes won't focus. He's not sure whether to blame that on the tears. He's not wearing his glasses. He'll blame it on that. But he knows her voice.

 

"Patrick, what are you doing here?" He grabs on to her, steadying himself, both hands on her arms so he doesn't topple over.

 

"Honey? What's happened, why... why are you covered in... Patrick, is that your blood? Are you alright?" He looks down, for the first time since leaving the house, he really looks. Red. Red staining his skin. Both of his hands are covered in it, his light brown shoes dark with it, it's probably all over his coat, too.

 

Patrick collapses as pain shoots through his head, drilling past his eye, carving into his brain. He presses a  blood-stained hand to it as he falls into the snow, blinded by it. He can't see, out of either eye, he can't see. Cold, primal panic clenches around his heart, gripping tight and squeezing and he can't breathe, can't think, lashes out and screams and shouts. There are hands grabbing at him, hurling him out of the snow, but he can't  _ see _ . He knows it's her.

 

"It's going to be okay, Patrick, come on, come with me, come home with me and I'll clean you up, it's warm, I promise, I can make you food, come home with me, honey, please, come with us." She won't leave him, won't stop, keeps touching him, keeps tearing away at him, begging and pleading and won't fucking leave him alone. Patrick shoves, for the second time that night, shoves her away from him, but she doesn't fall, staggers back in shock, one hand on her swollen belly, the other held out to brace against the brick wall behind her. Patrick sees her outline through a white haze.

 

"STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" he bellows into the night "STAY AWAY! YOU'RE JUST A FUCKING WHORE, I DON'T WANT ANYTHING.... I DON'T WANNA SEE YOU AGAIN! I DON'T EVER... EVER..." He has so much to yell, so many insults to hurl at her, at the stupid fucking slut who thinks she's worth something to him, the whore who so willingly sat on his cock time and time again, never once thinking of the consequences, never once thinking what might happen, expecting him to care about her and her bastard child. He runs as best he can, desperate to get away from her, away from the other women standing nearby, watching them, watching him, memorizing every detail of his face. What would they do, go to the cops? Tell them their whore friend had been attacked? They’d all be arrested, all of them.

 

The cold bites and tears, its teeth digging into his flesh through his sodden clothes. He can't feel his hands, feel his feet, feel his face, only his burning lungs as he tries to drag himself further and further until he can't. He collapses in the middle of the street, on the road, his body betraying him as he lies shaking in the snow, his lip trembling as the sobs start spilling from him. He has no tears left to cry, but they drown him nonetheless.

 

He killed somebody. He did it again.

 

He curls up as best he can with the frost taking over his bones and turning them rigid. He's so tired. So, so tired. What if he just closes his eyes, just sleeps, the pain in his skull would be forgotten and when he wakes up, the world will come around and it will be alright. He's so tired...

 

He's only half-conscious when he's lifted out of the snow, carried to warmth and safety by familiar arms wrapped around his legs and body. He nestles into Pete, yearns for him as he's set down inside, by the foot of the stairs, back against the wall. He's wrapped in layers and layers of warm coats, but his body won't stop trembling and the pain won't stop gnawing into his brain.

 

Pete's hand is gentle against his ice-cold skin, thumb stroking across his cheekbone soothingly and Patrick blinks into calm, loving, golden eyes. He can barely see, the white haze still across his vision, but they're glowing, bright against the black ringing them. He reaches out a trembling hand to brush against the white on Pete's face, but it isn't paint. His fingers come away clean, sticky with Gabe's blood but free of the colour he'd been expecting. He traces the grin etched onto Pete's face, big, black, curved lips surrounding the mouth he knows so well.

  
  


Patrick cries out as his skull is cracked open and he’s torn apart by the pain rocketing through his head and the guilt in his gut.

  
  


"I... I killed him..." he croaks, voice almost failing him, his throat sore from the cold screams. "I... I killed..." He expects anger, shock, disappointment. Rejection.

  
  


A smirk toys at Pete's mouth, twisting his face into something... so familiar. Tears fall as he fixes his gaze on Pete, desperate for him to be close, to be held and touched, desperate for him. For all of him. Nothing else will ever be enough. Patrick stares into burning golden eyes he knows he’s seen before, traces the shape of Pete that is so familiar, yet so distant, as though he’s known it all his life, as though he’s been there with him for every second, as though Pete is him. Patrick holds onto him, pulls him closer, intent on never letting go, he can’t let go, he can’t live if he lets go, and their lips are sealed with Pete’s claim on his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would b rad my tumblr is scmi-sweet in case you wanna yell at me on anon.
> 
> Also pands i hope you live this somewhat at least, love you xx
> 
> AND check out this awesome edit snitch made for me!!  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161115749@N03/42984757835/in/dateposted/)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated my tumblr is scmi-sweet come tell me how problematic i am


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